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MCM  VIII 


THIS  play  is  published  with  the  written  approval 
ofGfiRHART  HAUPTMANN,  and  by  ar- 
rangement with  the  holder  of  the  English  copy- 
right, and  is  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law,  all 
requirements  of  which  have  been  complied  with.  In  its 
present  form  it  is  dedicated  to  the  reading  public  only, 
and  no  performances  of  it  may  be  given,  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  the  owner  of  the  acting  rights, 
who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the  publisher. 
T[A11  rights  reserved.  Entered  at  STATIONERS'  HALL. 
Entered  at  the  LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS,  Washington^  D.  C. 


Copyright,  7899 

By  ROBERT  HOWARD  RUSSELL 
Printed  in  the  United  States 


Copyright,  1899 

By    DOUBLEDAY    &    McCLURE    Co. 


a 


^TX-t^c^*^^- 


E         W        O        R        D 

IVE  years  ago,  when  Gerhart 
Hauptmann  was  on  a  visit  to 
this  country,  it  was  my  privilege 
to  be  associated  with  him  in  the 
memorable  production  of  his 
"Hannele."  I  met  him  for 
the  first  time  at  a  little  country 
inn  (at  Meriden,  Connecticut). 
Instead  of  the  aggressive,  self- 
confident  man  I  had  fancied  him,  I  saw  a  student — 
almost  an  ascetic.  His  boyish  airand  shrinking  gravity  were 
curiously  at  variance  with  the  great  will-power  betokened 
by  his  set  though  tortured  lips  and  the  experience  in  his 
pale  and  weary  eyes.  He  had  a  smooth  face,  a  high  fore- 
head, crowned  with  short  and  careless  hair,  a  well-shaped, 
sensitive  nose.  If  I  had  passed  him  in  the  street  I 
might  have  set  him  down  as  a  perfervid  young  curate, 
or  a  seminarist.  A  painful,  introspective,  haunted  earnest- 
ness was  stamped  upon  his  face — the  face  of  a  thinker, 
a  dreamer,  a  genius. 

Although  Hauptmann  was  then  hardly  known  to  most 
of  us,  the  announcement  that  "Hannele"  was  to  be  per- 
formed at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre  stirred  up  a  storm. 
Frank  bigots,  sham  philanthropists,  hack  writers,  and 
political  quacks,  all  of  a  sudden  became  filled  with 
pious  fears  as  to  the  supposed  tendencies  and  teach- 
ings of  this  "Hannele."  In  the  name  of  religion,  they 


banded  themselves  into  a  League  of  Ignorance,  to  pre 
vent,  by  open  action  and  by  secret  tricks,  the  produc, 
tion  of  what  they  stupidly  and  ignorantly  proclaimed 
a  blasphemous  play.  Hauptmann,  who  had  neither 
invited  nor  desired  the  performance  of  his  "dream 
poem,"  was  dragged  into  the  controversy.  The  news- 
papers took  sides.  At  the  solicitation  of  Commo- 
dore Elbridge  T.  Gerry,  a  Tammany  Mayor  forbade 
the  appearance  of  the  young  actress  who  had  been  en- 
gaged to  impersonate  Hannele;  while  the  author,  the 
lessees  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre,  and  the  writer  of 
these  lines,  who  had  put  the  drama  into  English, 
were  threatened  with  imprisonment.  The  warfare  waged 
so  bitterly  against  the  Theatre-Libre  in  France  and 
the  Freie-Biihne  in  Germany  had,  by  some  miracle, 
spread  to  America.  And  the  attack  on  the  free  stage  was 
met  here  as  it  had  been  met  abroad.  Some  hundreds 
of  literary  and  critical  people  were  bidden  to  a  private 
representation  of  the  much  talked-of  play.  Next  morn- 
ing the  papers,  with  a  few  impenitent  exceptions,  pub- 
lished eulogies  of  "Hannele."  No  one  was  arrested. 
And  the  public  performance  took  place. 

But  the  community  was  not  yet  ripe  for  works  so 
strange,  and  deep,  and  true,  as  Hauptmann's  dream- 
poem.  "Hannele"  failed.  Something,  however,  had  been 
accomplished.  A  stone  had  been  cast  into  the  theatrical 
pond,  and  interest  in  the  new  movement  which  was  in- 
forming an  old  art  with  truth  and  life  had  been  violently, 
perhaps  too  violently,  quickened.  The  production  of 
"Die  Weber"  ("The  Weavers"),  at  the  Irving  Place 
Theatre, soon  after  renewed  and  strengthened  the  impres- 
sion made  by  "Hannele."  An  earlier  play,  "Vor  Son- 
nenaufgang"  ("Before  Sunrise"),  which  had  established 
Hauptmann's  reputation  in  Germany,  had  already  been 
seen  here,  at  the  Thalia  Theatre,  but  had  passed  almost 
unnoticed.  Ere  long,  another  work  by  the  young  master 
will  be  presented  on  the  American  boards,  in  English. 


That  work  is  the  fairy  play  called  "Die  versunkene 
Glocke,"  of  which  "The  Sunken  Bell"  is  a  confessedly 
free,  but,  I  would  fain  hope,  not  unfaithful  English 
transcript. 

"Die  versunkene  Glocke"  is  the  ninth  of  the  ten  plays 
that  Gerhart  Hauptmann  has  thus  far  thought  worth 
preserving.  His  latest  drama,  "Fuhrmann  Henschel," 
was  interpreted  at  the  Irving  Place  Theatre  only  a  few 
weeks  ago.  His  earlier  works  (in  order  of  succession)  are 
"Vor  Sonnenaufgang"  ("Before  Sunrise"),  "Das  Fried- 
ensfest"  ("The  Family  Festival"),  "Einsame  Menschen" 
("Lonely  Lives"),"Die  Weber"  ("The  Weavers"),  "Col- 
lege Crampton"  ("Our  Colleague  Crampton"),  "Der 
Biberpelz"  ("The  Fur  Coat"),  "Hannele,"  now  known  as 
"Hannele's  Himmelfahrt,"  ("The  Assumption  of  Han- 
ele"),  and  "Florian  Geyer."  All  have  been  written,  pub- 
lished, and  performed  within  one  decade.  And  each,  in  its 
own  way,  is  notable.  This,  surely,  is  a  great  record  for  a 
man  soyoungas  Hauptmann.  At  thirty-six — he  was  born 
at  Ober  Salzburg,  in  Silesia,  on  the  fifteenth  of  No- 
vember, 1862 — he  has  wrought  wonders. 

Unlike  some  men  who  have  grown  famous,  in  his  child- 
hood the  future  author  of  "The  Sunken  Bell"  gave  little 
promise.  A  dreamer  from  his  nursery  up,  he  lounged 
through  school,  winning  faint  praise  and  but  few  laurels 
from  his  teachers,  who  seem  to  have  regarded  him  as 
hopelessly  lazy  and  by  no  means  brilliant.  His 
father  (a  substantial  innkeeper)  no  doubt  agreed  with 
them.  But  Carl,  young  Gerhart's  brother,  had  more 
faith  in  the  strange,  wayward  youth  who  showed  so 
little  interest  in  his  books  and  so  much  passionate  fond- 
ness for  nature.  He  saw,  or  he  divined,  more  than  his 
ciders.  Years  later,  when  he  received  a  copy  of  "Vor 
Sonnenaufgang,"  he  knew  that  he  had  not  misplaced  his 
confidence.  After  reading  the  play,  he  sent  Gerhart  a 
rather  remarkable  message,  congratulating  him  on  having 


tafcen  "the  first  step  towards  immortality."  And  it  is 
immortality — no  less — that  we,  who  admire  Gerhart 
Hauptmann,  believe  reserved  for  him.  We  see,  or  we 
fancy  that  we  see,  in  the  young  poet-dramatist,  the  gift 
of  genius.  We  hold  him  to  be  a  legitimate  suc- 
cessor of  Goethe,  and  we  regard  him  as  the  completer 
of  Henrik  Ibsen.  We  hail  him  as  akin  to  the  grand  Russian, 
Tolstoi.  We  feel  that  he  has  inherited  something — nay, 
much — of  Shakespeare.  Even  as  those  writers,  he  has 
digged  into  the  soul  of  humanity.  He  has  probed  its 
sorrow  and  its  joy,  its  good  and  its  evil,  its  hope  and 
its  despair.  And  out  of  all  these  things  he  has  made  plays, 
like  unto  no  other  plays  of  this  our  day;  plays  that  may 
anger  or  perplex  and  startle  some,  but  which,  once 
seen,  will  never  be  forgotten.  His  insight  into  the 
dark  mysteries  of  the  heart  is  deep,  his  sympathy  with 
all  his  kind  is  wide,  his  art  rings  true.  Yet  Ibsen  him- 
self has  hardly  been  more  combated,  and  hated,  and  de- 
cried, than  Gerhart  Hauptmann.  Some  have  professed 
to  take  him  for  an  atheist.  Others  have  called  him  a 
nihilist.  But  he  is  neither.  He  is  only  a  great  artist,  a 
true  poet,  and — a  dramatist.  Long  before  the  appearance 
of  "Vor  Sonnenaufgang"  he  described  his  aims: 

Dir  nur  gehorch  ich,  reiner  Trieb  der  Seele! 
Des  sei  mein  Zeuge,  Geist  des  Ideales, 
Das  keine  Riicksicht  eitler  Art  mich  bindet. 
Ich  kann  nicht  slngen  wie  die  Philomele. 
Ich  bin  ein  Sanger  jenes  diistern  Tales, 
Wo  alles  Edle  beim  Ergreifen  schwindet. 

Du  aber,  Volk  der  ruhelosen  Biirger, 
Du  armes  Volk,  zu  dem  ich  selbst  mich  zahle, 
Das  sei  mir  feme,  dass  ich  deiner  fluche ! 
Durch  deine  Reihen  gehen  tausend  Wiirger, 
Und  dass  ich  dich,  ein  neuer  Wiirger,  quale, 
Verhiit  es  Gott,  den  ich  noch  immer  suche ! 

At  school  he  was  not  happy.  Nor  was  it  till  he  went  to 
the  University  of  Jena  with  his  brother  Carl  that  he 
found  the  companionship  he  needed  for  the  unfolding  of 
his  genius.  At  Jena,  to  his  sorrow,  he  became  steeped  in 
the  prevalent  Darwinism  of  his  fellow  students.  But  his 


acquired  materialism,  which  still  clogs  his  wings,  has 
always  been  at  war  with  his  intuitive  idealism.  We  may 
be  sure,  too,  that,  at  some  period  or  other,  he  has  been 
affected  by  religious  emotionalism.  At  twenty-two  he 
married.  Before  this  he  had  wandered  through  Europe, 
with  a  copy  of  "Childe  Harold"  in  his  pocket,  visiting, 
among  other  lands,  Spain  and  Italy.  In  Rome  he  was  for 
a  time  tempted  to  turn  sculptor.  Later  on,  he  aspired  to 
become  an  actor.  Happily  for  himself  and  for  the  stage, 
he  abandoned  both  plans.  In  1887,  after  he  had  published 
two  short  stories,  written  a  few  poems,  and  forgotten 
his  two  jejune  plays  ("Tiberius"  and  "Promethidenlos"), 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Bruno  Wille,  the  socialist, 
and  Arno  Holz,  author  of  the  "Papa  Hamlet"  which  did 
so  much  to  foster  the  growth  of  stage  realism  in  Ger- 
many. Both  men  unquestionably  influenced  him.  They 
led  him  to  discard,  for  the  time  being,  his  old  favorites — 
Goethe,  Byron  and  Darwin — for  Tolstoi,  Zola,  and 
Ibsen.  Fresh  from  his  long  talks  with  Holz,  and  while 
he  was  still  filled  with  admiration  of  Tolstoi's  "Dominion 
of  Darkness,"  Hauptmann  went  into  his  Silesian  moun- 
tains and  wrote  his  earliest  realistic  play,  "Vor  Sonnen- 
aufgang."  It  was  produced,  in  1889,  at  the  Berlin  Les- 
sing  Theatre,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Freie-Buhne. 

From  that  hour,  his  vocation  was  clear  to  him.  Forsak- 
ing the  conventions,  the  falsities,  and  the  mock  romance 
of  the  accepted  German  stage,  he  became  a  dramatist. 
His  characters,  drawn  from  life  and  informed  with  the 
passions  of  real,  suffering,  men  and  women,  distressed 
the  orthodox.  The  simplicity  and  frequent  crudity  of  his 
dialogue  horrified  many  of  the  critics.  But  others,  like 
TheodorFontaneand  Otto Brahm, had morediscernment. 
Soon  Hauptmann  came  to  be  looked  up  to  as  the  stand- 
ard-bearer, the  champion,  of  the  "new  movement."  In 
"Lonely  Lives"  his  art  grew  more  delicate  and  more 
psychological.  It  broadened  marvellously  in  the  work 
which  some  maintain  to  be  his  masterpiece — the  epic  of 


misery  known  to  us  as  "The  Weavers."  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  "Hannele."  The  appearance  of  each  play, 
whether  in  book-form  or  on  the  boards,  was  the  signal 
for  fresh  outbreaks  of  enthusiasm  and  virulent  hostility. 
With  the  production  of  his  historic  play,  "Florian 
Geyer,"  Hauptmann  for  the  first  time  met  disaster. 
"Florian  Geyer"  was  to  have  formed  part  of  a  dra- 
matic trilogy  woven  about  the  grand  story  of  the  Reform- 
ation. The  poet  had  put  his  whole  soul  into  his  work, 
and  its  failure  almost  paralyzed  his  energy.  But  he  recov- 
ered. When  things  looked  darkest  to  him,  and  he  had  be- 
gun to  doubt  his  own  genius,  he  received  news  that  the 
Grillparzer  Prize  had  been  awarded  to  him  for  his  "Han- 
nele." It  was  about  thistimehe  wrote  "The  Sunken  Bell." 

Hauptmann  has  chosen  to  call  "The  Sunken  Bell"  "a 
German  fairy  play."  Those  who  so  wish  may  take  the 
author's  description  literally,  and  spare  themselves  the 
trouble  of  seeking  to  read  into  the  work  the  deep  sig- 
nificance that  most  will  find  in  it.  To  the  literal,  a  prim- 
rose but  a  primrose  is,  and  the  characters  in  "The  Sunken 
Bell" — Heinrich,  the  bell-founder,  who  breaks  his  heart 
in  the  vain  effort  to  reach  the  sun  and  to  create  a 
wondrous  chime;  Rautendelein,  the  elf,  who  spirits  him 
to  her  wild  mountain  home;  Magda,  the  deserted  wife; 
the  Vicar,  the  Barber,  and  the  Schoolmaster,  who  go  in 
search  of  the  lost  Master;  the  Nickelmann,  the  Wood- 
Sprite,  Old  Wittikin,  and  all  the  rest  of  them — will  seem 
but  figures  in  a  lovely  though  mysterious  legend,  spun 
out  of  the  German  folk-lore  (some  acquaintance  with 
which  is  indispensable  to  a  full  comprehension  of  even 
themost  superficial  sense  of  the  play). To  these  I  take  the 
liberty  of  commending  Grimm's  "Teutonic  Mythology." 
Hauptmann  had  unquestionably  studied  that  work  closely 
before  wr  ing  "The  Sunken  Bell."  His  elves,  his  sprites, 
and  his  wise-woman,  are  not  chance  creations.  All  have 
their  places  and  their  meanings  in  the  myths  of  Germany. 


But  it  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  there  is  more,  yea,  infi 
nitely  more,  in  the  words,  the  characters,  and  the  plot, 
of  "The  Sunken  Bell"  than  a  mere  fairy  tale,  however 
beautiful.  Each  eye  will  see  in  them  what  it  is  capable  of 
seeing.  Each  mind  will  read  into  themthe  meaningthat  best 
fits  its  own  experience.  Some  may  interpret  the  symbolism 
of  the  play  from  an  aesthetic  standpoint.  Some  may  en- 
rich it  with  a  world-wide  sense — moral,  or  religious,  or 
social,  or  all  three.  The  drama  has,  aptly  enough,  been 
likened  to  a  symphony.  Who  would  dare  say  that  he 
has  fathomed  the  whole  meaning  of  the  grand  "Choral?" 
Or  even  of  less  certain  master-works  ? 

Look  at  the  story  of  "The  Sunken  Bell"  with  the  eye 
of  an  artist,  and  you  may  take  it  as  a  parable  showing 
the  eternal  effort  of  all  artists  (typified  in  Heinrich)  to 
attain  their  aesthetic  ideals.  View  the  play  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  reformer,  and  you  may  interpret  it  as 
the  tale  of  the  dreamer  who,  hampered  by  inevitable 
conditions,  strives  to  remodel  human  society.  For  my 
own  part  I  incline  to  regard  Heinrich,  the  bell-founder, 
as  a  symbol  of  Humanity  struggling  painfully  towards  the 
realization  of  its  dream  of  the  ideal  truth  and  joy  and 
light  and  justice.  Rautendelein  in  this  reading  stands 
for  Nature,  or,  rather,  for  the  freedom  and  sincerity  of 
Nature,  missing  a  re-union  with  which  Humanity  can 
never  hope  to  reach  the  supreme  truth  and  the  supreme 
bliss  of  which  the  Sun  is  the  emblem.  In  Magda,  the 
poor,  faithful,  patient  wife,  whose  dead  hand,  in  the 
tragical  fourth  act,  tolls  the  bell  that  arouses  Heinrich 
from  his  dream,  we  have  a  symbol  of  the  domestic 
loves,  the  earthly  ties,  from  which  no  man,  howevel 
noble  and  far-reaching  be  his  aims,  can  be  released. 
Old  Wittikin  embodies  the  eternal,  passionless,  phi- 
losophy of  Life.  The  Vicar,  the  Barber,  and  the  School- 
master stand  for  the  conventions — the  half-dead,  half- 
living,  creeds,  theories, and  superstitions  of  society,  which 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  idealist.  Heinrich  makes  the 


attempt  to  break  with  them.  Filled  with  despair  at  the 
failure  of  his  old  ideals  (symbolized  in  the  lost  bell), 
and  enlightened  by  communion  with  Rautendelein,  he 
turns  his  back  on  all  the  shams,  and  alas,  on  some  of  the 
realities,  which  bind  him  to  the  earth.  The  kiss  of  the 
fair  elf  who  heals  him  when  he  lies  upon  his  sick-bed 
broadens  his  vision,  steels  his  hand,  puts  youth  into  his 
soul.  Only  by  a  mystical  union  with  the  Nature  which 
society,  as  it  is  now  constituted,  has  disowned,  can  he 
"work  wonders  with  the  power  on  high"  and  fashion 
the  grand  peal  of  bells  which  is  to  ring  out  a  new,  glad, 
and  merciful,  Gospel  through  the  world. 

And  Heinrich's  Gospel  would  weld  the  forgotten  truths 
of  a  pure,  primitive  Christianity  with  the  sweet  teachings 
of  a  serene  Paganism.  But  it  is  not  proclaimed.  For,  to  per- 
fect his  mighty  task,  Heinrich  must  have  faith  in  his  own 
purpose.  He  must  be  more  than  man:  more  even  than 
Over-man.  He  must  be  god-like.  Although  Rautende- 
lein may  name  him  Balder,  god  of  the  Spring  and  joy  of 
life,  he  is  no  god,  but  only  a  poor  searcher  after  light. 
Doubt  and  materialism,  symbolized  in  the  Nickelmann, 
and  earthly  lusts,  embodied  in  the  Wood-Sprite,  disturb 
him  on  the  threshold  of  his  triumph.  His  old  ideals 
may  be  sunk  in  the  dark  mountain  mere;  but  they  are  not 
quite  dead.  And  when  the  bell,  "the  long-lost,  buried, 
bell"  peals  out;  when  the  visions  of  his  poor  lads  appear 
to  him;  he  has  not  strength,  he  has  not  the  incredible  and 
superhuman  steadfastness,  to  withstand  their  appeal.  He 
spurns  "the  very  pinion  of  his  soul,"  Rautendelein,  and 
leaves  his  heights.  "What's  past  is  past — what's  done  is 
done  for  aye!"  His  early  ideals  have  perished.  He  has 
rejected  his  new  light.  So,  when  Old  Wittikin — wise- 
woman,  but  not  witch — comes  wkh  the  cup  of  death,  he 
drinks  it  thankfully.  And,  as  he  dies  to  earth,  Rauten- 
delein returns  to  him  for  a  brief  moment,  bringing  com- 

•  DO 

fort.  "Heinrich!  The  sun  is  coming!"  His  eyes  are  filled 
with  mystic  radiance.  His  ears  are  charmed  with  the 


sweet  music  of  the  sun-bells — his  sun-bells — that  were 
to  have  rung  joy  throughout  the  world. 

Some  may  see  pessimism  in  this  ending  of  the  tragedy — 
others,  optimism.  The  creator  of  "The  Sunken  Bell" 
leaves  us  to  draw  our  own  inferences. 

CHARLES  HENRY  MELTZER. 

New  York,  June,  1899. 


(<Open  the  windows — Light  and  God  stream  in." 

C  H AR ACTER  S 

HEINRICH,  a  bell-founder 

M  A  G  D  A  ,  his  wife 

Two  CHILDREN,  boys,  aged  5  and  9 

THE  VICAR 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER 

THE  BARBER 

OLD  WITTIKIN 

RAUTENDELEIN,  an  elfin  creature 

THE  NICKELMANN,  an  elemental  spirit 

THE  Woo  D-S  PRITE 

FOUR  ELVES 

TROLDS  AND  DWARFS 

VILLAGERS 

^[The  scenes  are  laid  in  the  mountains  and  in  a 
village  below. 


The  Incidental  Music 
AIMK  LACKAUMX 


THE  SUNKEN  BELL 


HKINRICH  :— Here  all  is  beautiful !  The  rustling  boughs 
Hare  such  a  strange,  full  sound 


No.  7.  ACT  I. 


Indantino. 


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The  Sunken  Bell. 


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No.  9.    ACT  I. 


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THE  SUNKEN  BELL. 


ACT  ONE. 

SCENE :  A  fir-clad  glade  in  the  mountains.  R.  up  stage,  be- 
neath an  overhanging  rock,  a  hut,  with  practicable  door  and 
windows.  L.  C.  an  old  well. 

RAUTENDELEIN  is  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  well,  combing 
her  thick  golden  locks  and  addressing  a  bee  which  she  is 
trying  to  drive  away.  In  one  hand  she  has  a  mirror. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  buzzing,  golden,  wight — whence  com'st  thou  here  ? 

Thou  sipper  of  sweets,  thou  little  wax-maker  ! 

Nay !    Tease  me  not,  thou  sun-born  good-for-naught ! 

Dost  hear  ?  .  .  .  Begone !  .  .  .  'Tis  time  I  combed  my  hair 

With  Granny's  golden  comb.     Should  I  delay, 

She'll  scold  me  when  she  comes.     Begone,  I  say ! 

What  ?  .  .  .  Loit'ring  still  ?  .  .  .  Away — away  with  thee  ! 

Am  I  a  rose  bush  ?  .  .  .  Are  my  lips  a  rose  ? 

Off  to  the  wood  with  thee,  beyond  the  brook ! 

There,  there,  my  pretty  bee,  bloom  cowslips  fair, 

And  crocuses,  and  violets — thou  canst  suck 

Thy  fill  of  them.     Dost  think  I  jest  ?     No.     No. 

Quick !    Get  thee  home.     Thou'rt  not  in  favor  here. 

Thou  knowest  Granny's  cast  a  spell  on  thee 

For  furnishing  the  Church  with  altar-lights. 

Come  !    Must  I  speak  again  ?    Go  not  too  far  ! 

Hey  !  .  .  .  Chimney  !     Puff  some  smoke  across  the  glade, 

To  drive  away  this  naughty,  wilful,  bee. 


2  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

Ho!    Gander!    Hither!    Hither!  .  .  .  Hurry!    Hurry! 
Away !     Away  !     [Bee  flies  off.}   ...  At  last !  .  .  . 

[RAUTENDELEIN  combs  her  hair  quietly  for  a   moment 
or  two.     Then,  leaning  over  the  well,  she  calls  down.'} 

Hey !     Nickelmann  ! 
[Pause.} 
He  does  not  hear  me.    Well— I'll  sing  to  myself. 

Where  do  I  come  from  ?  .  .  .  Whither  go  ? 

Tell  me — I  long  to  know  ! 

Did  I  grow  as  the  birds  of  the  woodland  gay  ? 

Am  I  a  fay  ? 

Who  asks  the  sweet  flower 

That  blooms  in  the  dell, 

And  brightens  the  bower, 

Its  tale  to  tell  ? 

Yet,  oft,  as  I  sit  by  my  well,  alone, 

I  sigh  for  the  mother  I  ne'er  have  known. 

But  my  weird  I  must  dree — 

And  I'm  fair  to  see — 

A  golden-haired  maid  of  the  forest  free  ! 

[Pause.     She  calls. 

Hey !    Nickelmann !    Come  up  !     'Tis  lonely  here. 
Granny's  gone  gathering  fir-apples.     I'm  dull !  .  . 
Wilt  keep  me  company  and  tell  me  tales  ? 
Why  then,  to-night,  perhaps,  as  a  reward  .    .   . 
I'll  creep  into  some  farmer's  yard  and  steal 
A  big,  black,  cock  for  thee !  .  .  .  Ah,  here  he  comef 
The  silver  bubbles  to  the  surface  mount ! 
If  he  should  bob  up  now,  the  glass  he'd  break, 
That  such  bright  answer  to  my  nod  doth  make. 

[Admiring  her  reflection  in  the  well. 
Godden'  to  thee,  my  sweet  maid  o'  the  well ! 
Thy  name?  .  .  .  Rautendelein  ?  .  .  .  Indeed!     I  see — 
Thou'rt  jealous  of  my  beauty.     Look  at  me. 
For  I,  not  thou,  Rautendelein  should  be. 
What  didst  thou  answer  ?     Didst  thou  dare  to  point 
Thy  finger  at  thy  soft  twin-breasts  ?  .  .  .  Nay,  nay— 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I.  3 

I'm  fairer  ;  fair  as  Freya.     Not  for  naught 

My  hair  was  spun  out  of  the  sunbeams  red, 

To  shine,  in  golden  glory,  even  as  the  sun 

Shines  up  at  us,  at  noon,  from  out  a  lake. 

Aha  !    Thou  spread'st  thy  tresses,  like  a  net, 

All  fiery-scarlet,  set  to  catch  the  fishes  ! 

Thou  poor,  vain,  foolish,  trull   .    .   .   There  !    Catch  this  stone. 

{Throwing  pebble  down  the  well  and  disturbing  the 
reflection^ 

Thy  hour  is  ended.    Now — I'm  fair  alone  ! 

[Catting.} 

Ho !    Nickelmann  !    Come — help  me  pass  the  time  ! 

[7$£  NICKELMANN,  a  water-spirit,  half  emerges  from  the 
well,  and  flops  over  the  edge.  He  is  streaming  with 
water.  Weeds  cling  to  his  head.  He  snorts  like  a 
seal,  and  his  eyes  blink  as  if  the  daylight  hurt  them.} 

He's  here !  .  .  .  Ha  !    Ha  !    Ha !    Ha !    How  dreadfully  plain 

He  is !  .  .  .  Didst  thou  not  hear  me  call !    Dear,  dear — 

It  makes  one's  flesh  creep  but  to  know  him  near  ! 

THE  NICKELMANN  [croaking]. 

Brekekekex ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [mocking], 

Brekekekex  !     Ay,  ay — 

It  smells  of  springtide.     Well,  is  that  so  strange  ? 
Why — every  lizard,  mole,  and  worm,  and  mouse — 
The  veriest  water-rat — had  scented  that. 
The  quail,  the  hare,  the  trout,  the  fly,  the  weeds, 
Had  told  thee  Spring  was  here. 

THE  NICKELMANN  [touchily]. 

Brekekekex ! 

Be  not  too  nosey-wise.     Dost  understand  ? 
Thou  ape,  thou  midge,  thou  tomtit,  irk  me  not ! 
I  say,  beware  !  ...  So,  Quorax  !    Quack !    Quack !    Quack  ! 


4  The  SUNKEN  BELL  Act  I. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

If  Master  Uncle's  cross  to-day, 
I'll  leave  him  all  alone  to  play. 
And  I'll  go  dance  a  ring-a-round. 
Partners  a-plenty,  I'll  be  bound, 
For  pretty  maidens  may  be  found. 

\Calling.-\ 
Heigh-a-aye ! 

Voice  of  WOOD-SPRITE  \Jteard  without}. 
Heigh-a-o ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

My  merry  faun,  come — dance  with  me,  I  pray ! 
[Enter  the  WOOD-SPRITE,  skipping  comically  across  the  glade} 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Nay,  I'm  no  dancer;  but  I  know  a  leap 
Would  make  the  mountain-goat  with  envy  weep. 
If  that  won't  do  for  thee,  I  know  a  game 
Will  please  thee  more,  my  nixey.     Fly  with  me  ; 
I'll  show  thee  in  the  woods  a  willow  tree 
All  hollowed  out  with  age,  where  never  came 
The  sound  of  babbling  brook,  nor  crow  of  cock. 
There,  in  the  shadow  of  some  friendly  rock, 
I'll  cut  for  thee,  my  own,  the  wond'rous  pipe 
All  maids  must  dance  to. 

RAUTENDELEIN  {eluding  him}. 

Thanks,  I'm  not  yet  ripe 

For  such  as  thou  !    An  thou  must  play  thy  pranks, 
Go — woo  thy  wood-wench.     She  may  like  thy  shanks ! 
Or — go  to  thy  dear  partner,  who — they  say — 
Another  baby  bears  thee  every  day  ; 
Except  on  Sundays,  when,  at  early  morn, 
Three  dirty  little  brats  to  thee  are  born  ! 
Ha!     Ha!     Ha! 

[She  runs  off  into  the  hut,  laughing.     The  WOOD-SPRITE 
vainly  pursues  her  and  returns  disconsolate.} 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I.  5 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Brekekekex  !    How  mad  the  baggage  seems  ! 
The  lightning  blast  thee  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [sitting], 

Ay  !  ...  I'd  love  to  tame  her. 

{He  produces  a  short  pipe  and  lights  it  by  striking  a  match 
on  his  hoof.] 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

And  how  go  things  at  home  ? 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

So  so.    So  so. 

It's  warmer  here  than  on  the  hills.     You're  snug. 
Up  yonder  the  wind  shrieks  and  howls  all  day ; 
The  swollen  clouds  drift  damp  about  the  peaks, 
And  burst  at  last,  like  sponges,  when  they're  squeezed. 
A  foul  time  we  have  of  it ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

And  is  that  all  ? 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

No   .   .    .   Yesterday  I  cut 

My  first  spring  salad.     It  grew  near  my  hut. 

This  morning,  early,  I  went  out, 

And,  roaming  carelessly  about, 

Through  brush  and  brier, 

Then  climbing  higher, 

At  last  I  reached  the  topmost  wood. 

There  I  espied  a  hateful  brood 

Of  mortals,  who  did  sweat  and  stew, 

And  dig  the  earth,  and  marble  hew. 

A  curse  upon  their  church  and  creed — 

Their  chapels,  and  their  clanging  bells  * — 

*  The  sprites  and  dwarfs  hated  bells,  especially  church  bells,  as  dis- 
turbers of  their  ancient  privacy. 


6  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L 

THE  NICKELMANN. 
Their  bread  they  mix  with  cummin-seed  !  * 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

They  plague  us  in  our  woods  and  wells. 

But  vain  is  all  our  wrath  and  woe. 

Beside  the  deep  abyss  'twill  grow 

With  tower  and  spire,  and,  overhead, 

The  cross  that  you  and  I  do  dread. 

Ay  !  .  .  .  The  noisy  monster  was  all  but  hung 

In  the  lofty  steeple,  and  soon  had  rung. 

But  I  was  alert !    We  shall  never  hear 

That  bell !    It  is  drowned  in  the  mere  ! 

[Changing  tone^ 
By  cock  and  pie ! 

A  devil  of  a  joke !  .  .  .  I  stood  on  the  brink 
Of  the  cliff,  chewing  sorrel,  to  help  me  think, 
As  I  rested  against  a  stump  of  birch, 
'Mid  the  mountain  grasses,  I  watched  the  church. 
When,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  saw  the  wing 
Of  a  blood-red  butterfly,  trying  to  cling 
To  a  stone.     And  I  marked  how  it  dipped,  and  tipped, 
As  if  from  a  blossom  the  sweet  it  sipped. 
I  called.    It  fluttered,  to  left  and  to  right, 
Until  on  my  hand  I  felt  it  light. 
I  knew  the  elf.     It  was  faint  with  fright. 
We  babbled  o'  this, 
And  we  babbled  o'  that, 
Of  the  frogs  that  had  spawned 
Ere  the  day  had  dawned, — 
We  babbled  and  gabbled,  a-much,  I  wis : 
Then  it  broke 
Into  tears  !  .  .  . 
I  calmed  its  fears. 
And  again  it  spoke. 

*  Cummin-seed  was  obnoxious  to  the  sprites. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

"  O,  they're  cracking  their  whips, 

"  And  they  gee !  and  they  whoa ! 

"  As  they  drag  it  aloft 

"  From  the  dale  below. 

"  Tis  some  terrible  tub,  that  has  lost  its  lid, 

"  All  of  iron !    Will  nobody  rid 

"Our  woods  of  the  horrible  thing?  'Twould  make 

"  The  bravest  moss-mannikin  shudder  and  quake. 

"  They  swear  they  will  hang  it,  these  foolish  people, 

"  High  up  in  the  heart  of  the  new  church  steeple, 

"  And  they'll  hammer,  and  bang,  at  its  sides  all  day 

"  To  frighten  good  spirits  of  earth  away  !  " 

I  hummed,  and  I  hawed,  and  I  said,  ho  ho ! 

As  the  butterfly  fell  to  the  earth :  while  I 

Stole  off  in  pursuit  of  a  herd  near  by. 

I  guzzled  my  fill  of  good  milk,  I  trow ! 

Three  udders  ran  dry.     They  will  seek  in  vain 

So  much  as  a  drop  of  it  more  to  drain. 

Then,  making  my  way  to  a  swirling  stream, 

I  hid  in  the  brush,  as  a  sturdy  team 

Came  snorting,  and  panting,  along  the  road — 

Eight  nags,  tugging  hard  at  their  heavy  load. 

We  will  bide  our  time,  quoth  I — and  lay 

Quite  still  in  the  grass,  till  the  mighty  dray 

Rumbled  by : — when,  stealing  from  hedge  to  hedge. 

And  hopping  and  skipping  from  rock  to  rock, 

I  followed  the  fools.    They  had  reached  the  edge 

Of  the  cliff  when  there  came — a  block  ! 

With  flanks  all  a-quiver,  and  hocks  a-thrill, 

They  hauled  and  they  lugged  at  the  dray  until, 

Worn  out  by  the  struggle  to  move  the  bell, 

They  had  to  lie  down  for  a  moment.     Well — 

Quoth  I  to  myself,  the  Faun  will  play 

Them  a  trick  that  will  spare  them  more  work  to-day. 

One  clutch  at  the  wheel — I  had  loosened  a  spoke — 

A  wrench,  and  a  blow,  and  the  wood-work  broke. 

A  wobble,  a  crack,  and  the  hateful  bell 


8  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L 

Rolled  over — and  into  the  gulf  it  fell ! 

And  oh,  how  it  sounded, 

And  clanged,  as  it  bounded, 

From  crag  to  crag,  on  its  downward  way : 

Till  at  last  in  the  welcoming  splash  and  the  spray 

Of  the  lake  it  was  lost — for  aye  ! 

[During  the  WOOD-SPRITE'S  speech  night  has  drawn  near. 
It  is  now  dusk.  Several  times,  towards  the  end  of  the 
narrative,  faint  cries  for  help  have  been  heard,  coming 
from  the  wood.  Enter  from  back,  HEINRICH.  As 
he  approaches  the  hut,  the  WOOD-SPRITE  vanishes  in 
the  wood  and  the  NICKELMANN  disappears  in  the  well. 
HEINRICH  is  about  30  years  of  age.  His  face  is  pale 
and  careworn^ 

HEINRICH. 

Good  people — open !    Quick !    I've  lost  my  way  ! 

Help !     Help  !     I've  fallen  !  ...  I  am  weak  ...  I  faint ! 

Will  no  one  answer?  .  .  .  Help!     Kind  people !     Help! 

\He  sinks  on  the  ground,  unconscious,  near  the  hut.  The 
sun  has  set — dark  purple  clouds  hang  over  the  hills. 
The  wind  rises.  Enter  from  the  wood,  carrying  a 
basket  on  her  back,  OLD  WITTIKIN.] 

WlTTIKIN. 

Rautendel' !    Come  and  help  me  with  my  load  ! 
I've  too  much  on  my  shoulders.     Come,  I  say  ! 
I'm  scant  o'  breath  !  .  .  .  Where  can  the  girl  be  dawdling? 

\A  bat  flies  across  the  glade ^ 
Ho !    Stop  thy  gadding,  flitter-mouse,  and  list ! 
Thou'lt  fill  thy  greedy  craw  quite  soon  enough. 
Come  hither.     Fly  through  yonder  hole  and  see 
If  she's  within.     Then  send  her  quick  to  me  ! 

[Faint  lightning.     WITTIKIN  shakes  her  fist  at  the  sky.} 
Ay,  ay,  I  see  thee,  Father  Thor !  .  .  .  'Twill  storm  ! 
But  give  thy  noisy  goats  not  too  much  rope, 
And  see  thy  great  red  beard  gleams  not  too  bright. 
Rautendel' !  Hey  !    Rautendel'  .  .  .  Dost  not  hear  ? 

[A  squirrel  skips  across  the  path^\ 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L  9 

Hey !    Squirrel !     Thou  hast  fleet  and  nimble  feet. 
Hop  thou  into  the  hut,  and,  shouldst  thou  meet 
Rautendel',  send  her  hither.     As  a  treat, 
I'll  give  thee,  for  thy  pains,  a  nut  to  eat! 

[WiTTiKiN  sees  HEINRICH  and  touches  him  contemptuously 

with  her  foot] 

What's  this?    A  stranger?    Well,  well,  I  declare  ! 
And  pray,  what  brings  you  here,  my  man,  so  late  ? 
Rautenclel'! . . .  Hey!  Rautendel'!  [To  HEINRICH].  Are  you  dead? 
Plague  take  you !     As  if  I'd  not  more'n  enough 
To  worry  me — what  wi '  the  Bailiff  and  the  Priest 
Hunting  me  down  like  a  mad  dog.     And  now 
I  find  a  dead  man  at  my  door — Rautendel' ! 
A  rare  time  I'd  have  of  it,  I'll  be  bound, 
If  they  should  find  this  fellow  lying  here. 
They'd  burn  my  house  about  my  ears.    \To  HEINRICH.]     Art 

dumb? 
Ay.     Ay. 
[RAUTENDELEIN  enters  from  hut,  and  looks  out  inquiringly] 

Oho  !    Thou'rt  come  at  last.     Look  there  ! 
We  have  a  visitor.     And  what  a  one  ! 
He's  still  enough.     Go  !    Fetch  a  truss  of  hay, 
And  make  a  litter. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

In  the  hut  ? 

WITTIKIN  [grumbling]. 

What  next  ? 
Nay,  nay.    We've  no  room  in  the  hut  for  him. 

[Exit  into  hut.  RAUTENDELEIN  follows  her.  She  re- 
appears a  moment  later,  with  an  armful  of  hay,  and 
is  about  to  kneel  beside  HEINRICH,  when  he  recovers 
consciousness] 

HEINRICH. 

Where  am  I  ?    Maiden— wilt  thou  answer  me  ? 


10  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why,  in  the  mountains. 

HEINRICH. 

In  the  mountains  ?     Ay — 
But  how  .  .  .  and  why  ?    What  brought  me  here  to-night  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Nay,  gentle  stranger,  naught  know  I  of  that. 
Why  fret  thyself  about  such  trifles  ?     See — 
Here  I  have  brought  thee  hay.    So  lay  thy  head 
Down  and  take  all  the  rest  thou  need'st. 

HEINRICH. 

Yes  !     Yes ! 

Tis  rest  I  need.    Indeed — indeed — thou'rt  right. 
But  rest  will  come  to  me  no  more,  my  child  ! 

[  Uneasily} 
Now  .  .  .  tell  me  ...  what  has  happened  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Nay,  if  I  knew  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

Meseems  . .  .  methinks  . . .  and  .  .  .  then  ...  all  ends  in  dreams. 
Ay,  surely,  I  am  dreaming. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Here  is  milk. 
Thou  must  drink  some  oi  it,  for  thou  art  weak. 

HEINRICH  {eagerly}. 

Thanks,  maiden.     I  will  drink.     Give  me  the  milk. 

[He  drinks  from  a  bowl  which  she  offers  fo'm.] 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

[  While  he  drinks.} 

Thou  art  not  used  to  mountain  ways.     Thy  home 
Lies  in  the  vale  below,  where  mortals  dwell. 
And,  like  a  hunter  who  once  fell  from  the  cliff 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  I.  II 

While  giving  chase  to  some  wild  mountain  fowl, 

Thou  hast  climbed  far  too  high.     And  yet  ...  that  man 

Was  not  quite  fashioned  as  the  man  thou  art. 

HEINRICH. 

[After  drinking  and  looking  ecstatically  and  fixedly  at 

RAUTENDELEIN.] 

Speak  on  !     Speak  on  !    Thy  drink  was  very  sweet. 
But  sweeter  still  thy  voice  .  .  . 

[Again  becoming  anxious.'] 
She  said — a  man 

Not  fashioned  like  myself.     A  better  man — 
And  yet  he  fell !  .  .  .  Speak  on,  my  child. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why  speak  ? 

What  can  my  words  avail  ?     I'll  rather  go 
And  fetch  thee  water  from  the  brook,  to  wash 
The  blood  and  dust  from  off  thy  brow  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

[Pleading  and  grasping  her  by  the  wrist.  RAUTENDELEIN 
stands  undecided.'] 

Ah,  stay ! 

And  look  into  mine  eyes  with  thy  strange  eyes. 
For  lo,  the  world,  within  thine  eyes  renewed, 
So  sweetly  bedded,  draws  me  back  to  life  ! 
Stay,  child.     O  stay  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [uneasy]. 

Then  ...  as  thou  wilt.     And  yet  ... 

HEINRICH  [fevered  and  imploring]. 

Ah,  stay  with  me  !    Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  so  ? 
Thou  dost  not  dream  how  dear  to  me  thou  art. 
O,  wake  me  not,  my  child.     I'll  tell  thee  all. 
I  fell  .  .  .  Yet — no.     Speak  thou  ;  for  thy  dear  voice 


12  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L 

Has  Heaven's  own  music.     God  did  give  it  thee. 
And  I  will  listen.    Speak !  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  not  speak  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  sing  to  me  ?     Why  then  ...  I  must  .  .  . 
I  fell.     I  know  not  how — I've  told  thee  that — 
Whether  the  path  gave  way  beneath  my  feet ; 
Whether  'twas  willingly  I  fell,  or  no — 
God  wot.     Enough.     I  fell  into  the  gulf. 

\More  fevered.\ 

And  then  I  clutched  at  a  wild  cherry  tree 
That  grew  between  the  rocks.     It  broke — and  I, 
Still  clasping  a  bough  tightly,  felt  a  shower 
Of  pale  pink  blossoms  riot  round  my  head ; 
Then  swift  was  hurled  to  the  abyss — and  died  ! 
And  even  now  I'm  dead.     It  must  be  so. 
Let  no  one  wake  me ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [uncertainly]. 

Yet  thou  seem'st  alive  ! 

HEINRICH. 

I  know — I  know — what  once  I  did  not  know  : 
That  Life  is  Death,  and  only  Death  is  Life. 

[Collapsing-  again.] 

I  fell.    I  lived— and  fell.    The  bell  fell,  too  ! 
We  two — the  bell  and  I.     Was  I  the  first — 
To  slip,  and  next— the  bell  ?     Or — the  reverse  ? 
Who  seeks  to  know  ?     And  who  could  prove  the  truth  ? 
And  even  were  it  proven,  what  care  I  ? 
Then  I  was  living.     Now — ah,  now  ...  I'm  dead. 

[Tenderly.] 
Ah,  go  not  yet ! 

[Looks  at  his  hand.] 
My  hand  !  .  .  .  Tis  white  as  milk  ! 
My  hand  !  ...  It  hangs  so  heavy !  ...  It  seems  dead. 
I  cannot  lift  it !  ...  Yet —    How  sweet  thou  art ! 
The  mere  touch  of  thy  soft  hair  doth  bring  relief, 
As  water  of  Bethesda  1  ...  Nay,  do  not  fear  ! 
My  hand  shall  never  harm  thee — thou  art  holy  ! 
Where  have  we  met  ?  .  .  .  I  surely  know  thy  face. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  /.  13 

Somewhere,  but  where,  or  when,  I  cannot  tell, 

I  wrought  for  thee,  and  strove — in  one  grand  Bell, 

To  wed  the  silver  music  of  thy  voice 

With  the  warm  gold  of  a  Sun-holiday. 

It  should  have  been  a  master-work  !  .  .  .  I  failed. 

Then  wept  I  tears  of  blood. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Wept  tears  of  blood  ? 
I  cannot  follow  thee.     What  be  these  tears  ? 

HEINRICH  [trying  to  raise  his  head~\. 

Thou  lovely  picture  !  .  .  .  Help  me  to  sit  up. 

[RAUTENDELEIN  stoops  and  supports  his  head.'] 
Dost  thou  bend  down  to  me  ?    Then,  with  love's  arms, 
Do  thou  release  me  from  this  cruel  Earth, 
Whereunto  the  hour  nails  me,  as  to  a  cross. 
Release  me  !    For  thou  canst.     I  know  thou  canst ! 
And,  with  thy  tender  hands,  pluck  off  the  thorns 
That  crown  my  head.     No  crown  !     Love — only  Love  ! 

[  His  head  is  slightly  raised.    He  seems  exhausted^ 

Thanks !    Thanks ! 

[Gently  and  in  a  lost  kind  of  way  as  he  looks  at  the  land- 
scape.] 

Here  all  is  beautiful !    The  rustling  boughs 
Have  such  a  strange,  full  sound.     The  darkling  arms 
Of  the  great  firs  move  so  mysteriously. 
How  solemnly  their  heads  sway  to  and  fro  ! 
The  very  soul  of  fairy  fantasy 

Sighs  through  the  wood.     It  murmurs  low,  and  then, 
Still  gently  whisp'ring,  stirs  the  tiny  leaves. 
Now  it  goes  singing  through  the  green  wood-grass. 
And  now,  veiled  all  in  misty  white,  it  nears — 
It  stretches  out  its  long  white  hand  and  points 
At  me  I  .  .  .  Now  closer,  it  draws!     It  touches  my  ear  .  .  . 
My  tongue  .  .  .  my  eyes!  .  .  .  'Tisgone!     Yet  thou  art  here! 
Thou  art  my  fantasy  I  .  .  Kiss  me,  sweet  fantasy ! 

[He  faints.] 


14  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L 

RAUTENDELEIN  {half  to  herself  \ 

Thy  speech  is  strange.     I  know  not  what  to  make  of 't. 

{She  suddenly  resolves  to  go] 
Lie  thou,  and  sleep. 

HEINRICH  \dr earning}. 

Kiss  me,  sweet  fantasy  ! 

[RAUTENDELEIN  stops,  and  gazes  at  HEINRICH.  The 
darkness  deepens.  RAUTENDELEIN  suddenly  grows 
frightened  and  calls.} 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

O  grandmother ! 

WITTIKIN  {from  within  the  huf\. 
Well,  girl  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Come  here  !    Come  here ! 

WlTTIKIN  [as  above}. 
Nay,  come  thou  here,  and  help  me  make  the  fire  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

O  Granny ! 

WITTIKIN. 

Hark'ee,  wench.     Dost  hear  me  ?    Come. 
'Tis  time  we  fed  the  goat.    And  then  to  milk  it ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Grandmother  !    Help  him  !    Help  him  !     He  is  dying  ! 
[Enter  from  hut,  WITTIKIN.     She  stands  on  the  threshold,  hold- 
ing a  milk  pail  in  her  left  hand,  and  calls  to  her  cat.} 

WITTIKIN. 

Here !    Puss,  Puss,  Puss  ! 

[She  looks  carelessly  at  HEINRICH.] 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I.  15 

He  hasn't  budged,  I  see. 
Well — mortals  all  must  die.     No  help  for  it. 
What  matter  ?     Let  him  be.     He's  better  so. 
Come — pussy  !  pussy  !  .  .  .  Here  is  milk  for  thee — 

Why,  where  is  pussy  ? 

[Calling] 

Hurry,  hurry,  wood-folk,  when  I  call ! 
Here,  I've  milk  a-plenty  for  ye  all ! 
Hurry,  hurry,  hurry,  trold  and  sprite  ! 
[Enter  ten  droll  little  TROLDS,  male  and  female.     They  bustle 

about  the  milk  pail] 
Here  is  bread — for  every  one  a  bite  ! 
Here's  enough  to  drink,  and  here's  to  eat : 
Food  that  dukes  and  earls  'ud  count  a  treat. 

[  To  one  of  the  TROLDS.] 
Thou,  go  ! 
Thou  art  full,  I  trow. 

[To  the  other  TROLDS.] 
For  thee  a  sop — 
And  for  thee  a  drop — 
Now  enough  ye've  guzzled, 
And  off  ye  hop  ! 

[  They  riot  and  shout.] 
I'll  have  ye  muzzled, 
Unless  ye  stop  ! 
Nay,  this  won't  do — 
Ye  riotous  crew  ! 
Enough  for  to-day ! 
Away !     Away  ! 

[The  TROLDS  vanish  into  the  wood.  Moonlight.  The 
WOOD-SPRITE  appears,  seated  on  the  rocks  beyond 
the  hut.  Putting  his  horny  hands  to  his  mouth,  hi 
imitates  the  echo  of  a  cry  for  help] 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Help!    Help! 
WlTTIKIN. 
Why,  what's  amiss  ? 


16  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L 

DISTANT  VOICES  [from  the  wood], 

Heinrich !    Heinrich  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [as  above]. 

Help!    Help! 

WlTTIKIN  [threateningly  to  the  WOOD-SPRITE]. 
Fool,  thy  knavish  antics  cease ! 
Leave  our  mountain-folk  in  peace  ! 
Ay,  ay.     It  pleases  thee  to  vent  thy  spite 
On  the  poor  glass-workers  !  .  .  .  Thou  lov'st  to  bite 
Stray  dogs — to  lead  lost  travelers  into  fogs, 
And  see  them  floundering  in  the  moorland  bogs. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Granny,  never  heed  my  jests. 
Soon  thou  shalt  have  noble  guests  ! 
Who  rides  on  the  goose's  down  ? 
The  barber,  light  as  lather. 
Who  rides  on  the  goose's  crown  ? 
The  parson,  reverend  father — 
The  teacher,  with  his  cue — 
Three  screech-owls — all  for  you  ! 

THE  VOICES  [nearer]. 
Heinrich ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [as  before]. 
Help! 

WlTTIKIN. 

Now  may  the  lightning  strike  thee ! 
Wouldst  hang  a  schoolmaster  about  my  neck, 
And  eke  a  parson  ? 

[Shaking  her  fist  at  the  WOOD-SPRITE.] 
Thou  shalt  smart  for  this. 

I'll  send  thee  swarming  gnats,  and  stinging  flies, 
To  plague  thee  till  thou  shalt  be  so  distraught 
Thou'lt  long  to  hide  thyself. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L  17 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  \with  malignant  glee]. 

They're  coming,  Granny  ! 

[He  disappears.} 

WlTTIKIN. 

Well,  and  what  then  ?     They're  no  concern  o'  mine. 

[  To  RAUTENDELEIN,  who  is  gazing  fixedly  at  HEINRICH.] 
Into  the  hut !    Blow  out  the  light !     To  bed  ! 
Quick,  wench  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [sullen  and  defiant}. 
I  won't ! 

WlTTIKIN. 
What  ?    Disobey  me  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Yes! 

WlTTIKIN. 
And  why  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

They'll  take  him  from  me. 

WlTTIKIN. 

Well?    What  oft? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

They  must  not  take  him,  Granny  ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

Girl,  ha*  done ! 

And  let  them  deal  wi'  him  as  they  may  list. 
Dust  will  to  dust,  and  some  day  he  must  die. 
So  let  him  die.     He'll  be  the  better  for  't. 
See  how  life  irks  him,  how  it  rends  his  heart, 
Wi'  pain  and  agony. 


18  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L 

HEINRICH  [Dreaming}. 

The  Sun  sets  fast ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

He  never  saw  the  Sun,  girl !    Let  him  be. 

Come.     Follow  me.     Be  warned,  or  thou  wilt  rue  ! 

{Exit  into  hut.  Cries  of  " Heinrich !  Heinrich/" 
RAUTENDELEIN  listens  for  a  moment.  Then  she  sud- 
denly breaks  a  flowery  twig  from  a  bough,  and  draws 
a  circle  -with  it  round  HEINRICH  as  she  speaks  the 
following  lines.] 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

With  the  first  fresh  buds  of  Spring, 
Lo,  I  draw  the  magic  ring ! 
Safe  from  every  harm  and  ill, 
Thus  thou  art.     It  is  my  will ! 
Thou  art  thine,  and  thine,  and  mine  \ 
None  may  cross  the  mystic  line  ! 
Be  thou  youth,  or  man,  or  maid, 
Here  thou  surely  must  be  stayed  ! 

[She  hides  behind  the  trees  in  shadow^ 

[Enter  one  after  the  other,  from  the  wood,  the  VICAR,  the  BAR- 
BER, and  the  SCHOOLMASTER.] 

THE  VICAR. 

I  see  a  light. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

And  I! 

THE  VICAR. 

Where  are  we  now  ? 

THE  BARBER. 

God  only  knows.     Again  I  hear  that  cry 
Of  "  Help  !  Help  !  Help  !  " 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I.  19 

THE  VICAR. 

It  is  the  Master's  voice  ! 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

I  heard  no  cry. 

THE  BARBER. 

It  came  from  yonder  height. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

If  one  fell  up  to  Heaven,  that  might  be, 
But,  as  a  general  rule,  one  tumbles — down  : 
From  cliff  to  vale,  and  not  from  vale  to  cliff. 
The  Master  lies— I'd  stake  my  soul  upon  't — 
Full  fifty  fathoms  deeper  :  not  up  here. 

THE  BARBER. 

Ods  bodikins  !    Did  you  not  hear  him  then  ? 
If  that  was  not  the  voice  of  Master  Heinrich, 
May  I  be  set  to  shave  old  Riibezahl ! 
As  I'm  a  living  barber,  I  will  swear 
I  heard  a  cry. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Where  from  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

What  place  is  this  ? 

Ere  we  continue,  tell  me  that,  my  friends. 
My  face  is  bleeding ;  I  can  hardly  drag 
One  foot  after  another.     How  they  do  ache  ! 
I'll  go  no  further. 

A  VOICE. 
Help! 

THE  VICAR. 

Again  that  voice! 


20  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  1. 

THE  BARBER. 

And  this  time  it  was  close  to  where  we  stand ! 

THE  VICAR  [sitting  wearily]. 

I'm  racked  with  pain.     Indeed,  my  worthy  friends, 

I  can  no  more.     So  leave  me,  in  God's  name. 

In  truth,  though  you  should  beat  me  black  and  blue, 

You  could  not  make  me  budge  another  step. 

I  am  worn  out.     Alack,  that  this  glad  day 

Should  end  so  sadly  !     Who  had  ever  thought 

Such  things  could  happen  !     And  the  mighty  bell  — 

The  noblest  of  the  Master's  master-works ! 

Thy  ways,  O  Lord,  indeed  pass  finding  out 
And  are  most  wonderful ! 

THE  BARBER. 

Ay,  Father,  ay. 

And  do  you  wish  to  know  what  place  this  be  ? 
Well,  I  will  tell  you.     If  you'll  be  advised, 
You'll  get  from  hence — and  that  without  delay. 
'Twere  better  far  we  spent  the  livelong  night 
Bare-backed,  and  in  a  hornet's  nest,  than  here. 
For,  by  the  Lord,  we're  on  the  Silver  Hill ! 
Within  a  hundred  steps  should  stand  the  house 
Of  that  accursed  witch.    So — let's  away ! 

THE  VICAR. 

I  cannot  budge. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Nay,  come,  I  pray  you,  come. 
Worse  things  than  witches  are  encountered  here. 
If  they  were  all,  I  should  not  turn  a  hair. 
Ah,  there's  no  wilder  spot  for  leagues  around — 
A  paradise  of  smugglers,  thieves,  and  rogues — 
A  trysting-place  for  cut-throat  murderers — 
So  infamous  that  Peter, — he  who  longed 
To  know  what  fear  and  trembling  meant — might  learn 
Both  easily — if  he  but  came  this  way. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  L  21 

THE  BARBER. 

Yes.     One  and  one  make  two — we  all  know  that. 

But  that  is  not  the  only  thing  worth  knowing. 

I  hope,  my  master,  you  may  never  learn 

What  witchcraft  means  !  .  .     The  hellish  sluts  who  lurk, 

Like  toads  in  a  hole,  hatching  their  evil  plots, 

May  send  you  illnesses,  and  plague  your  ox, 

Make  blood  flow  from  the  udders  of  your  cows 

Instead  of  milk,  and  rot  your  sheep  with  worms — 

Or  curse  your  children  with  unwholesome  wens, 

And  horrible  ulcers.     All  this  they  can  do. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

You're  wandering,  Sirs.     The  night  has  turned  your  heads. 
While  you  go  babbling  here  of  witches'  games, 
Your  ears  grow  dull.     Heard  you  not  moans  ?     By  Heaven  I 
I  see  the  very  man  we  seek  ! 

THE  VICAR. 

See  whom  ? 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Why,  Master  Heinrich. 

THE  BARBER. 

O,  he's  lost  his  wits ! 

THE  VICAR. 

'Twas  witchcraft. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Nay,  then  two  and  two's  not  four, 
But  five.     And  that's  impossible.     Prate  not 
Of  witches.     For,  as  I  do  hope  for  Heaven, 
There  lies  the  master  bell-founder  himself  ! 
Look  !     Now  the  clouds  have  ceased  to  hide  the  moon. 
Look,  gentlemen  I    Now  !     Now  !    Well — was  I  right  ? 


22  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

THE  VICAR. 

Indeed  you  were,  my  master. 

THE  BARBER. 

Tis  the  bell-founder ! 

[All  three  hurry  towards  HEINRICH,  but  recoil  on  reach- 
ing the  edge  of  the  magic  ring:] 

THE  VICAR. 

Oh! 

THE  BARBER. 
Oh! 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Oh !  Oh  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

[Becoming  visible  for  a  moment  among  the  trees.] 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

[She  vanishes  amid  peals  of  mocking  laughter.  A  pause.] 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER  {bewildered}. 

What  was  it  ? 

THE  BARBER. 

Ay.     What  was  't  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

I  heard  a  laugh  ! 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

The  bright  light  dazzled  me.     I  do  believe 
It's  made  a  hole  in  my  head  as  big  as  my  fist. 

THE  VICAR. 
You  heard  the  laughter  ? 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  I.  23 

THE  BARBER. 

Ay,  and  something  cracked. 

THE  VICAR. 

The  laughter  seemed  to  come  from  every  pine 

That  rustles  round  us  in  the  growing  gloom. 

There  !     Yonder  !    Where  the  horn-owl  hoots  and  flies  ! 

THE  BARBER. 

Didn't  I  tell  you  of  these  devilish  folk  ? 
O  Lord,  O  Lord  !     I  warned  you  of  their  spells. 
D'ye  think  we're  safe  here  ?     As  for  me,  I  quake — 
My  flesh  creeps.     Curses  on  the  hag,  say  I ! 

THE  VICAR. 

{Raising  the  crucifix  which  hangs  round  his  neck,  and 

moving  steadfastly  towards  the  hutl\ 
You  may  be  right.     Yet,  though  the  Devil  himself 
Dwelt  here,  I'd  still  say  :  Courage  !     On  ! 
Against  him  we  will  pit  God's  Holy  Word  ! 
Ah  !  never  yet  was  Satan's  craft  more  clear 
Than  when  he  hurled  the  Master  and  the  bell 
To  death — God's  servant  and  his  instrument — 
The  bell  that,  from  the  edge  of  the  abyss 
Had  sung  the  hymn  of  everlasting  Love, 
And  Peace,  and  Mercy,  through  the  firmament ! 
Here  stand  we  as  true  soldiers  of  the  Lord  ! 
I'll  knock! 

THE  BARBER. 

D—d— don't  risk  it ! 

THE  VICAR. 

Yes  !    I  say,  I'll  knock  ! 
[He  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  hut.} 

WlTTlKlN  [from  within  the  hut}. 
Who's  there? 


24  The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  I. 

THE  VICAR. 

A  Christian  ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

Christian  or  no  Christian, 
What  d'you  want  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

Open! 

WlTTIKIN. 

{Appearing  in  the  doorway  carrying  a  lighted  lantern. 
Well  ?     What's  your  will  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

In  God's  name,  woman,  whom  thou  dost  not  know 

WlTTIKIN. 
Oho !    A  pious  opening,  I  declare  ! 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Thou  carrion-crow,  how  durst  thou  wag  thy  tongue  ? 

The  measure's  full — thy  time  is  meted  out. 

Thy  evil  life  and  thy  accursed  deeds 

Have  made  thee  hated  through  the  countryside. 

So — an  thou  do  not  now  as  thou  art  bid — 

Ere  dawn  the  red  cock*  from  thy  roof  shall  crow — 

Thy  den  of  thieves  shall  flame  and  smoke  to  Heaven  ! 

THE  BARBER  [Crossing  himself  repeatedly]* 

Thou  wicked  cat !    I'm  not  afraid  of  thee  ! 
Ay — scowl,  and  glare,  and  glower,  as  thou  wilt !  , 
Though  thy  red  eyes  should  light  upon  my  corpse, 
They'll  find  the  Cross  before  them.     Do  as  thou'rt  bid  ! 

*  In  Germany  "der  rothe  Halm"  is  a  symbol  of  incendiarism. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I.  25 

THE  VICAR. 

I  charge  thce,  woman,  in  God's  holy  name, 
Have  done  with  all  thy  devilish  juggleries, 
And  help  this  man  !    Here  lies  a  child  of  God, 
A  Master,  gifted  with  a  wondrous  art 
That  him  doth  honor,  while  it  puts  to  shame 
The  damned  companies  of  air  and  Hell. 

WlTTIKIN. 

[  Who  has  been  prowling  round  HEINRICH  with  her  lantern] 
And,  what's  all  that  to  do  wi'  me  ?    Enough  ! 
You're  welcome  to  the  creature.     Take  him  hence. 
What  harm  did  I  to  him  ?     For  aught  I  care, 
He  may  live  on,  till  he  has  spent  his  breath. 
I'll  wager  that  won't  be  so  very  long  ! 
Ye  name  him  "  Master,"  and  ye  love  the  sound 
O'  the  big  iron  bells  the  creature  makes. 
Ye  all  are  hard  o'  hearin',  or  ye'd  know 
There's  no  good  in  his  bells.     He  knows  it,  too. 
Ah,  I  could  tell  ye,  an'  I  would,  what's  wrong. 
The  best  and  worst  o'  them  ring  false.    They're  cracked. 
There  !    Take  the  litter.     Bear  the  man  away — 
The  "  Master,"  as  ye  call  him  !    Master  Milksop  ! 

[To  HEINRICH.] 

Get  up  !    Go  home  and  help  the  panon  preach  ! 
Go — help  the  schoolmaster  to  birch  his  boys — 
Go — mix  the  lather  in  the  barber's  shop  ! 
[The  BARBER  and  the  SCHOOLMASTER  ////  HEINRICH  on  to 
the  litter] 

THE  VICAR. 

Thou  wicked,  scolding  hag  !    Restrain  thy  tongue ! 
Thy  way  shall  lead  thee  straight  to  Hell.     Begone ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

O,  spare  your  sermons.     I  ha'  heard  ye  preach. 
1  know,  I  know.     Tis  sinful  to  ha'  senses. 
The  earth's  a  coffin,  and  the  Heavens  above 


26  The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  I. 

Are  but  a  coffin-lid.     The  stars  are  holes  ; 
The  sun's  a  bigger  hole  in  the  blue  sky. 
The  world  'ucl  come  to  grief  wi'out  the  priests, 
And  God  himself  ye'd  make  a  bug-a-boo  ! 
The  Lord  should  take  a  rod  to  ye — poor  fools ! 
Ay,  fools  are  ye — all,  all !  and  nothing  more  ! 

[She  bangs  open  her  door  and  goes  into  hut.} 

THE  VICAR. 

Thou  beldame ! 

THE  BARBER. 

For  Heaven's  sake — don't  vex  her  more  ! 

If  you  should  goad  her  further,  we  are  lost. 

[Exeunt  the  VICAR,  the  SCHOOLMASTER,  and  the  BARBER  into 
the  wood,  bearing  away  HEINRICH  on  the  litter.  The  moon 
shines  out,  and  lights  up  the  peaceful  landscape.  FIRST, 
SECOND,  and  THIRD  ELVES  steal  out  of  the  wood  one  after 
the  other  and  join  hands  in  a  dance.] 

FIRST  ELF  [  whispering]. 
Sister ! 

SECOND  ELF  [as  above]. 
Sister ! 

FIRST  ELF  [as  above]. 

White  and  chill 

Shines  the  moon  across  the  hill. 
Over  bank,  and  over  brae, 
Queen  she  is,  and  Queen  shall  stay. 

SECOND  ELF. 

Whence  com'st  thou  ? 

FIRST  ELF. 

From  where  the  light 
In  the  waterfall  gleams  bright, 
Where  the  glowing  flood  cloth  leap, 
Roaring,  down  into  the  deep. 


The   SUNKEN    BELL   Act  /.  27 

Then,  from  out  the  mirk  and  mist, 
Where  the  foaming  torrent  hissed, 
Past  the  dripping  rocks  and  spray, 
Up  I  swiftly  made  my  way. 

THIRD  ELF  [Joining  them]. 
Sisters,  is  it  here  ye  dance  ? 

FIRST  ELF. 

Wouldst  thou  join  us  ?    Quick— advance ! 

SECOND  ELF. 

And  whence  com'st  thou  ? 

THIRD  ELF. 

Hark  and  hist ! 

Dance,  and  dance,  as  ye  may  list ! 
'Mid  the  rocky  peaks  forlorn 
Lies  the  lake  where  I  was  born. 
Starry  gems  are  mirrored  clear 
On  the  face  of  that  dark  mere. 
Ere  the  fickle  moon  could  wane, 
Up  I  swept  my  silver  train. 
Where  the  mountain  breezes  sigh, 
Over  clove  and  crag  came  I ! 

FOURTH  ELF  [entering], 
Sisters ! 

FIRST  ELF. 

Sister  !    Join  the  round  ! 

ALL  [together]. 

Ring-a-ring-a-ring-around  ! 

FOURTH  ELF. 

From  Dame  Holle's  flowery  brae, 
Secretly  I  stole  away. 


28  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

FIRST  ELF. 

Wind  and  wander,  in  and  out ! 

ALL  {together}. 

Ring-a-ring-a-round-about ! 

[Lightning  and  distant  thunder.} 

[Enter  suddenly,  from  the  hut,  RAUTENDELEIN.  Clasping 
her  hands  behind  her  head,  she  watches  the  dance  from  the 
doorway.  The  moonlight  falls  full  on  her.} 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Ho,  my  fairies ! 

FIRST  ELF. 

Hark  !    A  cry  ! 

SECOND  ELF. 

Owch  !    My  dress  is  all  awry  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Ho,  ye  fairies ! 

THIRD  ELF. 

O,  my  gown  ! 
Flit  and  flutter,  up  and  down. 

RAUTENDELEIN  [joining  in  the  dance]. 

Let  me  join  the  merry  round. 
Ring-a-ring-a-ring-around  ! 
Silver  nixey,  sweetest  maid, 
See  how  richly  I'm  arrayed. 
All  of  silver,  white  and  rare, 
Granny  wove  my  dress  so  fair. 
Thou,  my  fairy  brown,  I  vow, 
Browner  far  am  I  than  thou. 
And,  my  golden  sister  fair, 
I  can  match  thee  with  my  hair, 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I.  29 

Now  I  toss  it  high — behold, 
Thou  hast  surely  no  such  gold. 
Now  it  tumbles  o'er  my  face  : 
Who  can  rival  me  in  grace  ? 

ALL  {together}. 

Wind  and  wander,  in  and  out, 
Ring-a-ring-a-round-about ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Into  the  gulf  there  fell  a  bell. 
Where  is  it  lying  ?    Will  ye  tell  ? 

ALL  {together}. 

Wind  and  wander,  in  and  out, 

Ring-a-ring-a-round-about ! 

Daisy  and  forget-me-not, 

Fairy  footsteps  injure  not. 

[Enter  the  WOOD-SPRITE,  skipping.  Thunder— this  time 
louder.  During  the  following  speech,  a  storm  rages — 
thunder  and  hail^\ 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Daisy  and  forget-me-not 

Crush  I  in  the  earth  to  rot. 

If  the  moorland's  all  a-drip 

'Tis  because  I  leap,  and  skip ! 

Now  the  bull  doth  seek  his  mate, 

Bellows  at  the  stable  gate. 

And  the  heifer,  sleeping  by, 

Lifts  her  head  and  lows  reply. 

On  the  stallion's  warm  brown  hide 

Every  fly  doth  seek  his  bride, 

While  the  midges  dance  above, 

Fill  the  air  with  life  and  love. 

See  !     The  ostler  woos  the  maid  ! 

Buss  her,  fool !     Dost  fear  the  jade? 

With  the  rotting  straw  for  bed. 


30  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

Soft  and  tender,  lo  they  wed  ! 

Hul'lo!    Hul'lo!    Heigh-o-hey! 

Whisp'ring's  over  for  to-day. 

Done  the  dancing,  hushed  and  chill, 

Lusty  life  is  master  still  ! 

Be  it  early,  be  it  late, 

Mews  the  tom-cat,  mews  its  mate. 

Nightingale,  and  thrush,  and  stork, 

Hart,  and  hare,  and  hen,  and  hawk, 

Snipe,  and  quail,  and  swan,  and  duck, 

Crane,  and  pheasant,  doe  and  buck, 

Beetle,  moth,  and  mole,  and  louse, 

Toad,  and  frog,  and  bat,  and  mouse, 

Bee,  and  gnat,  and  moth,  and  fly — 

All  must  love,  and  all  must  die  ! 

[  The  WOOD-SPRITE  snatches  up  one  of  the  ELVES  and  car- 
ries her  off  into  the  -wood.  The  three  other  ELVES 
vanish  in  different  directions.  RAUTENDELEIN  re- 
mains standing  alone  and  sad,  in  the  middle  of  the 
glade.  The  storm  gradually  dies  away.  ] 

[THE  NlCKELMANN  rises  from  the  well,  as  before] 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Brekekekex !— Brekekekex  !    Hey  !    Ho  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stand  there  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  dear  water-sprite — 
Alas,  I  am  so  sad.    So  sad  am  I ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN  [mockingly]. 
Brekekekex  !    And  which  eye  hurts  thee,  dear  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN  [gaily]. 

The  left  eye.     But,  perhaps,  thou  think'st  I  jest  ? 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Ay,  surely,  surely. 


The   SUNKEN    BELL  Act  L  31 

RAUTENDELEIN  ^pointing  to  a  tear  in  her  eye], 

Look — what  can  it  be  ? 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why — see  what's  in  my  eye  ! 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
What's  in  thine  eye  ?     Come — let  me  see  it  close. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

A  warm,  wet,  drop  has  fallen  on  my  lid.     . 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
The  deuce  it  has  !     Come  nearer — let  me  see. 

RAUTENDELEIN  \_holding  out  the  tear  to  hini\* 

A  tiny,  pure,  warm,  glitt'ring,  drop  of  dew. 
There,  only  see ! 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 

By  Heaven  !     'Tis  beautiful. 
How  would  it  please  thee  an  I  took  the  thing 
And  set  it  in  a  fine,  pink  shell  for  thee  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why,  as  thou  wilt.     I'll  lay  it  on  the  edge 
Of  the  well.    What  can  it  be  ? 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

A  wondrous  gem ! 

Within  that  little  globe  lies  all  the  pain, 
And  all  the  joy,  the  world  can  ever  know. 
Tis  called — a  tear ! 


32  The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  I. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

A  tear  !  .  .  .    I  must  have  wept. 
So  now  at  last  I've  learned  what  these  tears  be  ... 
O,  tell  me  something ! 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Come  to  me,  dear  child  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Not  I,  forsooth.     What  good  were  that  to  me  ? 
The  edge  of  thine  old  well  is  wet  and  rough  ; 
Tis  overrun  with  spiders,  worms  and — worse. 
They  irk  me — all  of  them.     And  so  dost  thou. 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Brekekekex  !    I  grieve  to  hear  it,  dear. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Another  of  those  drops  !    How  strange ! 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 

More  rain ! 

Behold  !  Now  Father  Thor  is  all  ablaze. 
The  lightnings  from  his  beard  fall  soft,  and  blink 
Like  babies'  eyes,  setting  the  misty  train 
Of  rolling  clouds  aglow  with  purple  flame. 
And  yonder,  near  the  grey,  mark  how  a  flight 
Of  ravens  rushes  madly  through  the  night 
To  keep  him  company.     With  every  flash 
Their  wings  gleam  wetter  in  the  whirling  rain. 
Hark,  child,  how  thirstily  our  Mother  Earth 
Drinks  every  drop  !     And  how  the  trees  and  grass, 
The  flies  and  worms,  grow  glad  in  the  quick  light ! 

\Ligktning 

Quorax !    Now  in  the  valley  !    Master  !     Hail ! 
Old  Thor  is  kindling  a  rare  Easter  fire. 
His  hammer  flares — twelve  thousand  miles  it  sweeps  ! 
The  church-tower  totters — now  the  belfry  cracks  ! 
The  smoke  pours  out !  .  .  . 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  L  33 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Enough  !    Enough  !    No  more  ! 
Come,  tell  me  something  else.    I'm  tired  of  Thor. 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 

Thou  saucy  sparrow,  thou .    Brekekekex  ! 

What  ails  the  creature  ?    When  it's  stroked — it  pecks. 
A  pretty  way  to  thank  one !    When  you're  done, 
You're  no  bit  further  than  ere  you'd  begun  ! 
Am  I  not  right  ?  .  .  .  Still  pouting,  eh  ?  .  .  .  Well,  well. 
What  wouldst  thou  know  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

O,  nothing.    Do  but  go  ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 
Naught  thou  wouldst  know  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Naught ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN  {imploringly}. 

Then,  speak  thou,  I  pray. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I  long  to  leave  you  all  and  go  away  ! 

[Her  eyes  fill  with  tears  and  she  stares  into  the  distance.] 

THE  NlCKELMANN  [with  anguish}. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?    Where  wouldst  thou  go  ? 

Is  it  the  world  of  men  that  thou  wouldst  know  ? 

I  warn  thee,  maiden.     Man's  a  curious  thing, 

Who  naught  but  woe  to  such  as  thou  could  bring. 

Although,  perchance,  with  ours  his  fate's  entwined, 

He  is,  yet  is  not  quite,  of  our  own  kind. 

His  world  is  ours — and  yet,  I  say,  beware  ! 

Half  here,  he  lives — half,  no  one  could  tell  where ! 


34  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

Half  he's  our  brother  ;  yet,  this  many  a  day, 

A  foe  he's  been,  and  lost  to  us  for  aye. 

Woe,  woe  to  all  who  our  free  mountains  flee 

To  join  these  mortals,  hoping  bliss  to  see  ! 

Man's  feet  are  in  the  Earth.     In  toil  and  pain 

He  lives  his  fleeting  life.     And  yet — he's  vain. 

He's  like  a  plant  that  in  a  cellar  shoots, 

And  needs  must  pluck  and  pluck  at  its  own  roots. 

So,  languishing  for  light,  he  rots  away. 

Nor  ever  knows  the  joy  of  one  sun-ray. 

The  breath  of  Spring  that  kisses  the  green  leaf, 

To  sickly  boughs  brings  death,  and  not  relief. 

Pry  thou  no  further,  but  let  Man  alone  : 

Lest  thou  should  hang  about  thy  neck — a  stone. 

Man  will  but  sadden  thee  with  his  grey  skies, 

And  turn  thy  happy  laugh  to  tears  and  sighs. 

Thou  shalt  be  chained  unto  an  ancient  Book. 

Accurst — no  more  upon  the  Sun  thou'lt  look  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Grandmother  says  thou  art  a  learned  seer. 
Yet,  an  thou  wilt  but  in  thy  waters  peer, 
Thou'lt  see  that  never  yet  a  rill  did  flow 
But  longed  into  the  world  of  men  to  go. 

THE  NlCKELMANN  [angrily]. 

Quorax  !    Brekekekex  !    Be  not  so  bold. 

Hear  now  the  words  of  one  ten  centuries  old  ! 

Let  slavish  streams  pursue  their  fated  way, 

Work,  wash,  for  men,  and  grind  their  corn  each  day, 

Water  their  cabbages  and  garden  stuff, 

And  swallow — Heav'n  knows  what!  And  now  .  .  .  enough! 

[  Warmly  and  earnestly.] 
But,  O,  my  dear  Princess  Rautendelein, 
For  thee  a  King's  chamber  were  none  too  fine. 
I  know  a  rare  crown,  all  of  crystal  so  green, 
In  a  great  golden  hall,  thou  shalt  wear  it,  my  queen. 
The  floor  and  the  roof  are  of  clear  blue  stone, 
Red  coral  the  coffers  and  chests  I  own.  .  . 


The   SUNKEN    BELL   Act   I.  35 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

And  what  though  thy  coffers  of  coral  be  wrought  ? 

Life  lived  with  the  fishes  were  good  for  naught. 

And  though  thy  King's  crown  of  pure  sapphire  should  be, 

Thy  daughters  should  prink  it  alone  with  thee. 

My  own  golden  tresses  are  far  more  dear ; 

Their  touch  a  caress  is  ;  my  crown  is— here  ! 

{She  turns  to  go^\ 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Where  art  thou  going  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN  {airily  and  indifferently}. 
What  is  that  to  thee  ? 

THE  NICKELMANN  {sorrowfully}. 

Much.     Much.     Brekekekex ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

O,  whither  I  will 
Go  I. 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

And  whither  wouldst  go  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Away  and  away ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Away  and  away  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN  {flinging  her  arms  aloft], 

To  the  world — of  men  ! 

[She  vanishes  in  (he  wood.\ 


36  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  I. 

THE  NICKELMANN  {terrified}. 
Quorax ! 

[  Whimpering.'] 
Quorax  ! 

{Softly.} 
Quorax ! 

is  head  sadly.} 
Brekekekex ! 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  Two. 

An  old-fashioned  room  in  the  house  of  HEINRICH  the 
bell-founder.  A  deep  recess  occupies  half  the  back  wall. 
In  the  recess  is  a  large  open  fireplace,  with  a  chimney 
above  it.  A  copper  kettle  is  suspended  above  the  un- 
lighted  fire.  The  other  half  of  the  back  wall,  set  at  an 
angle,  is  lighted  by  a  large  old-fashioned  window,  with 
bottle-glass  panes.  Below  this  window,  a  bed.  Doors  R. 
and  L.  That  on  the  R.  leads  to  the  workshop,  while  that  on 
the  L.  leads  to  the  courtyard.  L.  C.  a  table  and  chairs 
placed.  On  the  table :  a  full  jug  of  milk,  mugs,  and  a  loaf 
of  bread.  Near  the  table,  a  tub.  The  room  is  decorated 
with  works  by  Adam  Kraft,  Peter  Fischer,  etc. ,  conspicuous 
among  them  a  painted  wooden  image  of  Christ  on  the  Cross. 

DISCOVERED:  Seated  at  the  farther  side  of  the  table,  and, 
in  their  Sunday  best,  the  two  CHILDREN  (boys)  of  HEIN- 
RICH (aged  respectively  five  and  nine},  with  their  mugs  of 
milk  before  them.  MAGDA,  their  mother,  also  in  her  Sun- 
day best,  enters  L.,  with  a  bunch  of  cowslips  in  her  hand. 

Early  morning.  The  light  grows  brighter  as  the  action 
progresses. 

MAGDA. 

See,  children,  what  I've  brought  you  from  the  fields! 
Beyond  the  garden — a  whole  patch  grew  wild. 
Now  we  can  make  ourselves  look  fine  and  gay, 
In  honor  of  your  father's  birthday  feast. 

FIRST  CHILD. 

O,  give  me  some ! 

SECOND  CHILD. 

And  me  I 

37 


38  The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  II. 

MAGDA. 

There !     Five  for  each  ! 
And  every  single  one  they  say's  a  key  * 
That  opens  Heaven.     Now  drink  your  milk,  my  dears, 
And  eat  your  bread.     'Tis  almost  time  to  start. 
The  road  to  church,  you  know,  is  long  and  steep. 

NEIGHBOR  [a  woman]. 

[Looking  in  at  the  window.} 
What!    Up  already,  neighbor  ? 

MAGDA  [at  the  window]. 

Yes,  indeed. 

I  hardly  closed  my  eyes  the  livelong  night. 
But,  'twas  not  care  that  kept  me  wide-awake. 
So  now  I'm  just  as  fresh  as  if  I'd  slept 
Sound  as  a  dormouse.     Why,  how  bright  it  is  ! 

NEIGHBOR. 

Ay.    Ay.    You're  right. 

MAGDA. 

You'll  come  with  us,  I  hope  ? 
Now  don't  say  no.     You'll  find  it  easy  walking 
On  the  road  .  .  .     These  tiny  feet 
Shall  lead  the  way,  and  gently  mark  our  steps. 
If  you  must  have  the  truth,  I  long  for  wings  : 
I'm  wild  to-day  with  joy  and  eagerness  ! 

NEIGHBOR. 

And  has  your  good-man  not  been  home  all  night  ? 

MAGDA. 

What  are  you  dreaming  of  ?     I'll  be  content 

If  only  the  big  bell  is  safely  hung 

In  time  to  ring  the  people  in  to  mass  ! 

*In  German  the  cowslip  is  called  "  Himmelschltissel,"    »'.  e.,  "the 
key  of  Heaven." 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  1L  39 

You  see — the  time  was  short.     They'd  none  to  waste. 

And  as  for  sleeping — if  the  Master  snatched 

So  much  as  one  short  wink  in  the  wood-grass — 

Why,  Heaven  be  praised  !     But,  oh,  what  does  it  matter? 

The  work  was  hard  :  but  great  is  the  reward. 

You  cannot  think  how  pure,  and  clear,  and  true, 

The  new  bell  sounds.     Just  wait  until  you  hear  » 

Its  voice  ring  out  to-day  from  the  church  tower. 

'Tis  like  a  prayer,  a  hymn,  a  song  of  praise — 

Filling  the  heart  with  comfort  and  with  gladness. 

NEIGHBOR. 

No  doubt,  ma'am.     Yet  one  thing  amazes  me. 
From  my  front  door,  as  doubtless  you're  aware, 
The  church  upon  the  hill  is  plainly  seen. 
Now — I  had  heard  that  when  the  bell  was  hung 
A  white  flag  would  be  hoisted  from  the  tower. 
I've  seen  no  sign  of  that  white  flag.     Have  you? 

MAGDA. 

O,  look  again.    It  must  be  there  by  now. 

NEIGHBOR. 

No,  no.    It's  not. 

MAGDA. 

Well,  even  were  you  right, 
It  would  not  frighten  me.     Did  you  but  know 
The  fret  and  toil  and  pain,  by  night  and  day, 
It  costs  the  Master  to  complete  his  work, 
You  would  not  wonder  if  the  final  stroke 
Should  be  delayed  a  bit.     I  understand. 
By  this  time,  I'll  be  bound,  the  flag  is  there. 
Why,  yes,  I'm  sure  it  is,  could  we  but  see  't. 

NEIGHBOR. 

I  can't  believe  it.     In  the  village  streets 
They  do  say  something  dreadful  has  occurred. 


40  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II. 

Dark  omens,  boding  evil,  fill  the  air. 
But  now,  a  farmer  saw  a  naked  witch, 
Perched  on  a  boar's  back,  riding  through  his  corn. 
Lifting  a  stone,  he  cast  it  at  the  hag — 
Straightway  his  hand  dropped— palsied  to  the  knuckles ! 
Tis  said  that  all  the  mischievous  mountain  sprites 
Are  leagued  and  up  in  arms  against  the  bell. 
How  strange  you  have  not  heard  all  this  before  ! 
Well — now  the  Bailiff's  gone  into  the  hills, 
With  half  the  village  at  his  heels,  to  see  .  .  . 

MAGDA. 

The  Bailiff  ?    Merciful  God  !    What  can  be  wrong  ? 

NEIGHBOR. 

Why,  nothing's  certain.    All  may  yet  be  well. 

There — don't  take  on  so,  neighbor.     Come — be  calm  ! 

It's  not  so  bad  as  that.     Now  don't  'ee  fret. 

It  seems  the  wagon  and  the  bell  broke  down  .  .  . 

That's  all  we  've  heard. 

MAGDA. 

Pray  Heav'n  that  be  the  worst ! 
What  matters  one  bell  more  or  less  !  ...  If  he, 
The  Master,  be  but  safe — these  flowers  may  stay. 
Yet— till  we  know  what's  happened  .  .  .   Here,  prithee, 
Take  the  two  children  .  .  . 

[She  lifts  the  two  CHILDREN  through  the  window] 
Will  you  ? 

NEIGHBOR. 

Why,  to  be  sure. 

MAGDA. 

Thanks.     Take  them  home  with  you.     And,  as  for  me, 
Ah,  I  must  go,  as  fast  as  go  I  can, 


The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act  II.  41 

To  see  what  may  be  done — to  help.     For  I 
Must  be  with  my  dear  Master —or,  I  die ! 

[Exit  hurriedly.'] 

[The  NEIGHBOR  retires  with  the  CHILDREN.  Confused 
noise  of  voices  without.  Then  a  piercing  cry  from 
MAGDA.] 

[Enter  quickly  the  VICAR,  sighing,  and  wiping  the  tears  from 
his  eyes.  He  looks  round  the  room  hastily,  and  turns  down 
the  coverlet  of  the  bed.  Then,  hurrying  to  the  door,  he 
meets  the  SCHOOLMASTER  and  the  BARBER,  carrying 
HEINRICH  in  on  the  litter  seen  in  Act  One.  HEINRICH 
reclines  on  a  rude  bed  of  green  branches.  MAGDA,  half 
beside  herself  with  anguish,  follows,  supported  by  a  MAN 
and  a  WOMAN.  Crowd  of  VILLAGERS  presses  in  behind 
MAGDA.  HEINRICH  is  laid  on  his  own  bed.} 

THE  VICAR  [to  MAGDA]. 

Bear  up,  my  mistress  !     Put  your  trust  in  God  ! 
We  laid  him  on  our  litter  as  one  dead  ; 
Yet,  on  the  way,  he  came  to  life  again, 
And,  as  the  doctor  told  us,  only  now, 
Hope's  not  yet  lost. 

MAGDA  [moaning]. 

Dear  God,  who  speaks  of  hope  ? 
A  moment  since,  I  was  so  happy  !  .  .  .  Now — 
What's  come  to  me  ?     What's  happened  ?     Won't  you  speak  ? 
Where  are  the  children  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

Put  your  trust  in  God. 

Do  but  have  patience,  mistress.     Patience  and  faith ! 
Often— remember — in  our  direst  need 
God's  help  is  nearest.     And,  forget  not  this  : 
Should  He,  of  His  all-wisdom,  have  resolved, 
In  His  own  time,  to  call  the  Master  hence, 


42  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II. 

Still  there  shall  be  this  comfort  for  your  soul — 
Your  husband  goes  from  Earth  to  endless  bliss. 

MAGDA. 

Why  do  you  speak  of  comfort,  reverend  Sir  ? 
Do  I  need  comfort  ?  Nay — he  will  get  well. 
He  must  get  well. 

THE  VICAR. 

So  all  of  us  do  hope. 

But  .  .  .  should  he  not  .  .  .  God's  holy  will  be  done. 
Come  now  what  may,  the  Master's  fight  is  won. 
To  serve  the  Lord,  he  fashioned  his  great  belj, 
To  serve  the  Lord,  he  scaled  the  mountain-heights — 
Where  the  malignant  powers  of  Darkness  dwell, 
And  the  Abyss  defies  the  God  of  Hosts. 
Serving  the  Lord,  at  last  he  was  laid  low — 
Braving  the  hellish  spirits  in  his  path. 
They  feared  the  gospel  that  his  bell  had  rung  : 
So  leagued  themselves  against  him,  one  and  all, 
In  devilish  brotherhood.     God  punish  them  ! 

THE  BARBER. 

A  wonder-working  woman  lives  hard  by, 
Who  heals,  as  the  Disciples  healed  of  old, 
By  prayer  and  faith. 

THE  VICAR. 

Let  some  one  search  for  her : 
And  when  she's  found,  return  with  her  at  once. 

MAGDA. 

What's  come  to  him  ?     Why  do  you  stand  and  gape  ? 

Off  with  you  all !     You  shall  not  stare  at  him 

With  your  unfeeling  eyes.     D'you  hear  ?     Begone  ! 

Cover  him — so — with  linen,  lest  your  looks 

Should  shame  the  Master.     Now — away  with  you  ! 

Get  to  the  juggler's,  if  you  needs  must  gape. 

Ah,  God  !    What's  happened  ?  .  .  .  Are  ye  all  struck  dumb  ? 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II.  43 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Truly,  'tis  hard  to  tell  just  what  took  place. 
Whether  he  tried  to  stop  the  bell — or  what   .  .  . 
This  much  is  certain  :  if  you  could  but  see 
How  deep  he  fell,  you  would  go  down  on  your  knees 
And  thank  the  Lord.     For,  if  your  husband  lives, 
'Tis  nothing  short  of  the  miraculous  ! 

HEINRICH  [feebly]. 

Give  me  a  little  water ! 

MAGDA  [driving  out  the  VILLAGERS  quickly}. 
Out  you  go  ! 

THE  VICAR. 

Go,  my  good  people.    He  has  need  of  rest. 

[VILLAGERS  withdraw^ 
If  I  can  serve  you,  Mistress,  why,  you  know 
Where  you  may  find  me. 

THE  BARBER. 

Yes,  and  me. 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

And  me. 
No.    On  reflection,  I'll  stay  here. 

MAGDA. 

You'll  go ! 

HEINRICH. 

Give  me  some  water ! 

\The  VICAR,  SCHOOLMASTER,  and  BARBER  withdraw 
slowly,  talking  low,  shaking  their  heads,  and  shrugging 
their  shoulders.] 

MAGDA  [hastening  to  HEINRICH  with  water], 

Heinrich,  are  you  awake  ? 


44  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II. 

HEINRICH. 

I'm  parched.     Give  me  some  water.     Can't  you  hear  ? 

MAGDA  [unable  to  control  herself  \ 
Nay,  patience. 

HEINRICH. 

Magda,  all  too  soon  I'll  learn 
What  patience  means.     Bear  with  me  yet  a  while. 
It  will  not  be  for  long. 

[He  drinks.} 
Thanks,  Magda.     Thanks. 

MAGDA. 

Don't  speak  to  me  so  strangely,  Heinrich.     Don't ! 
I  ...  I'm  afraid. 

HEINRICH  [fevered  and  angry}. 

Thou  must  not  be  afraid. 
When  I  am  gone,  thou'lt  have  to  live  alone. 

MAGDA. 

I  cannot  ...  no,  I  will  not  .  .  .  live  without  thee ! 

HEINRICH. 

Thy  pain  is  childish.     Torture  me  no  more  ! 

It  is  unworthy, — for  thou  art  a  mother. 

Bethink  thee  what  that  word  means,  and  be  brave  ! 

MAGDA. 

Ah,  do  not  be  so  stern  and  harsh  with  me  ! 

HEINRICH   [painfully]. 

The  plain  truth  harsh  and  stern  ?     Again  I  say — 
Thy  place  is  by  the  bedside  of  thy  boys. 
There  lies  thy  joy,  thy  peace,  thy  work,  thy  life. 
All — all  is  tucked  up  in  their  fair,  white  sheets. 
Could  it  be  otherwise,  'twere  infamous  ! 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II.  45 

MAGDA  [falling  on  his  necK\. 

So  help  me  Heav'n,  I  love  thee  far,  far,  more 
Than  our  dear  children,  and  myself,  and  all ! 

HEINRICH. 

Then  woe  unto  ye  all,  too  soon  bereaved  ! 
And  thrice-unhappy  I,  untimely  doomed 
To  snatch  the  milk  and  bread  from  your  poor  lips ! 
Yet,  on  my  tongue,  I  feel  them  turn  to  poison. 
That,  too,  is  just !  .  .  .  Farewell.     Thee  I  commend 
To  one  from  whom  none  living  may  escape. 
Many  a  man  has  found  Death's  deepest  shadow 
Prove  but  a  welcome  light.    God  grant  it  be  ! 

[  Tenderly^ 

Give  me  thy  hand.    I've  done  thee  many  a  wrong 
By  word  and  deed.     Often  I've  grieved  thy  heart, 
Far,  far,  too  often.     But  thou  wilt  forgive  me ! 
I  would  have  spared  thee,  had  I  but  been  free. 
I  know  not  what  compelled  me  ;  yet  I  know 
I  could  not  choose  but  stab  thee — and  myself. 
Forgive  me,  Magda ! 

MAGDA. 

I  forgive  thee  ?    What  ? 
If  thou  dost  love  me,  Heinrich,  be  less  sad : 
Or  thou  wilt  bring  the  tears  back.     Rather — scold. 
Thou  knowest  well  how  dear 

HEINRICH  [painfully}. 
I  do  not  know ! 

MAGDA. 

Nay,  who,  but  thou,  did  wake  my  woman's  soul  ? 
Till  thou  didst  come,  I  was  a  poor,  dull,  clod, 
Pining  away  beneath  a  cheerless  sky. 
Thou — thou — didst  rescue  me  and  make  me  live, 
Fill  me  with  joy,  and  set  my  heart  in  the  sun. 
And  never  did  I  feel  thy  love  more  sure 


46  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II. 

Than  when,  with  thy  strong  hand,  thou'dst  draw  my  face 
Out  of  the  dark,  and  turn  it  towards  the  light. 
And  thou  wouldst  have  me  pardon  thee !     For  what? 
Do  I  not  owe  thee  all  I  love  in  life  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Strangely  entangled  seems  the  web  of  souls. 

MAGDA  [stroking  his  hair  tenderly]. 

If  I  have  ever  been  a  help  to  thee — 

If  I  have  sometimes  cheered  thy  working  hours — 

If  favor  in  thine  eyes  I  ever  found   .   .    . 

Bethink  thee,  Heinrich  :  I,  who  would  have  given 

Thee  everything — my  life — the  world  itself — 

I  had  but  that  to  pay  thee  for  thy  love  ! 

HEINRICH  [uneasily]. 

I'm  dying.     That  is  best.     God  means  it  well. 

Should  I  live  on   ...  Come  nearer,  wife,  and  hear  me. 

'Tis  better  for  us  both  that  I  should  die. 

Thou  think'st,  because  we  blossomed  out  together, 

I  was  the  sun  that  caused  thy  heart  to  bloom. 

But  that  the  eternal  Wonder-Worker  wrought, 

Who,  on  the  wings  of  His  chill  winter-storms, 

Rides  through  a  million  million  woodland  flowers, 

Slaying  them,  as  He  passes,  in  their  Spring  ! 

'Tis  better  for  us  both  that  I  should  die. 

See  :  I  was  cracked  and  ageing — all  misshaped. 

If  the  great  Bell-Founder  who  moulded  me 

Tosses  aside  His  work,  I  shall  not  mourn. 

When  He  did  hurl  me  down  to  the  abyss, 

After  my  own  poor,  faulty,  handiwork, 

I  did  not  murmur  :  for  my  work  was  bad  ! 

Good-wife — the  bell  that  sank  into  the  mere 

Was  not  made  for  the  heights — it  was  not  fit 

To  wake  the  answering  echoes  of  the  peaks  ! 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II.  47 

MAGDA. 

I  cannot  read  the  meaning  of  thy  words. 
A  work — so  highly-prized,  so  free  from  flaw, 
So  clear  and  true  that,  when  it  first  rang  out 
Between  the  mighty  trees  from  which  it  hung, 
All  marveled  and  exclaimed,  as  with  one  voice, 
"  The  Master's  bell  sings  as  the  Angels  sing  !  " 

HEINRICH  \_fevered\ 
'Twas  for  the  valley,  not  the  mountain-top  ! 

MAGDA. 

That  is  not  true  !    Hadst  thou  but  heard,  as  I, 

The  Vicar  tell  the  Clerk,  in  tones  that  shook, 

"  How  gloriously  'twill  sound  upon  the  heights!  "... 

HEINRICH. 

'Twas  for  the  valley — not  the  mountain-top  ! 

I  only  know  't.     The  Vicar  does  not  know. 

So  I  must  die — I  wish  to  die,  my  child. 

For,  look  now  :  should  I  heal — as  men  would  call  't — 

Thanks  to  the  art  of  our  good  village  leech, 

I'd  be  at  best  a  botch,  a  crippled  wretch  ; 

And  so  the  warm  and  generous  draught  of  life — 

Ofttimes  I've  found  it  bitter,  ofttimes  sweet, 

But  ever  it  was  strong,  as  I  did  drink  't — 

Would  turn  to  a  stale,  flat,  unsavory  brew, 

Thin  and  grown  cold  and  sour.     I'll  none  of  it ! 

Let  him  who  fancies  it  enjoy  the  draught. 

Me  it  would  only  sicken  and  repel. 

Hush  !    Hear  me  out.     Though  thou  shouldst  haply  find 

A  doctor  of  such  skill  that  he  could  cure  me, 

Giving  me  back  my  joy — nerving  my  hand, 

Till  it  could  turn  to  the  old,  daily  task — 

Even  then,  Magda,  I  were  still  undone. 


48  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  1L 

MAGDA. 

For  God's  sake,  husband,  tell  me  what  to  think  ! 

What  has  come  over  thee — a  man  so  strong, 

So  blessed,  so  weighted  down  with  Heaven's  best  gifts  ; 

Respected,  loved,  of  all — of  all  admired, 

A  master  of  thy  craft !   .   .   .   A  hundred  bells 

Hast  thou  set  ringing,  in  a  hundred  towers. 

They  sing  thy  praise,  with  restless  industry ; 

Pouring  the  deep,  glad,  beauty  of  thy  soul 

As  from  a  hundred  wine-cups,  through  the  land. 

At  eve,  the  purple-red — at  dawn,  God's  gold — 

Know  thee.     Of  both  thou  art  become  a  part. 

And  thou — rich,  rich,  beyond  thy  greatest  need — 

Thou,  voicing  God — able  to  give,  and  give, 

Rolling  in  happiness,  where  others  go 

Begging  their  daily  dole  of  joy  or  bread — 

Thou  look'st  unthankfully  upon  thy  work! 

Then,  Heinrich,  why  must  I  still  bear  the  life 

That  thou  dost  hate  so  ?  .   .   .    What  is  life  to  me  ? 

What  could  that  be  to  me  which  thou  dost  scorn — 

Casting  it  from  thee,  like  a  worthless  thing  ! 

HEINRICH. 

Mistake  me  not.     Now  thou  thyself  hast  sounded 

Deeper  and  clearer  than  my  loudest  bells. 

And  many  a  one  I've  made  !  .  .   .    I  thank  thee,  Magda. 

Yet  thou  shalt  understand  my  thought.     Thou  must. 

Listen  !  .   .   .   The  latest  of  my  works  had  failed. 

With  anguished  heart  I  followed  where  they  climbed, 

Shouting  and  cursing  loudly,  as  the  bell 

Was  dragged  towards  the  peak.     And  then — it  fell. 

It  fell  a  hundred  fathoms  deep,  ay  more, 

Into  the  mere.     There,  in  the  mere,  now  lies 

The  last  and  noblest  work  my  art  could  mould  ! 

Not  all  my  life,  as  I  have  lived  it,  Magda, 

Had  fashioned,  or  could  fashion,  aught  so  good. 

Now  I  have  thrown  it  after  my  bad  work. 

While  I  lie  drinking  the  poor  dregs  of  life, 


The   SUNKEN   BELL   Act  IT.  49 

Deep  in  the  waters  of  the  lake  it's  drowned. 
I  mourn  not  for  what's  lost.     And  then — I  mourn  : 
Knowing  this  only — neither  bell,  nor  life, 
Shall  evermore  come  back.     Alas  !  woe's  me  ! 
My  heart's  desire  was  bound  up  in  the  tones — 
The  buried  tones — I  never  more  shall  hear. 
And  now  the  life  to  which  I  clung  so  tight 
Is  turned  to  bitterness,  and  grief,  and  rue, 
Madness,  and  gloom,  confusion,  pain,  and  gall ! 

Well,  let  life  go  !    The  service  of  the  valleys 
Charms  me  no  longer,  and  no  more  their  peace 
Calms  my  wild  blood.     Since  on  the  peak  I  stood, 
All  that  I  am  has  longed  to  rise,  and  rise, 
Cleaving  the  mists,  until  it  touched  the  skies  ! 
I  would  work  wonders  with  the  power  on  high  : 
And,  since  I  may  not  work  them,  being  so  weak  ; 
Since,  even  could  I,  with  much  straining,  rise, 
I  should  but  fall  again — I  choose  to  die  ! 
Youth — a  new  youth — I'd  need,  if  I  should  live: 
Out  of  some  rare  and  magic  mountain  flower 
Marvelous  juices  I  should  need  to  press — 
Heart-health,  and  strength,  and  the  mad  lust  of  triumph, 
Steeling  my  hand  to  work  none  yet  have  dreamed  of  1 

MAGDA. 

0  Heinrich,  Heinrich,  did  I  but  know  the  spot 
Where  that  thou  pantest  for,  the  Spring  of  Youth, 
Lies  hid,  how  gladly  would  these  feet  of  mine 
Wear  themselves  out  to  find  it  for  thee  !     Yea, 
Even  though  the  waters  which  restored  thy  life 
Should  bring  me  death  ! 

HEINRICH  {tormented,  collapsing  and  delirious]. 

Thou  deadest,  truest !  .   .   .   No,  I  will  not  drink ! 

Keep  it ! .  .  .  The  Spring  is  full  of  blood  !  .  .  .  blood  ! .   .  .  blood  ! 

1  will  not !  .  .  .  No  !  .  .  .  Leave  me  .  .  .  and  ...  let  me  . . .  die ! 

{He  becomes  unconscious^ 


50  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  21. 

{Enter  the  VlCAR.] 

THE  VICAR. 
How  goes  it  with  the  patient,  mistress  ? 

MAGDA. 

111! 

Terribly  ill !     He's  sick  in  every  part. 

Some  strange,  mysterious  pain's  consuming  him. 

I  know  not  what  to  fear,  and  what  to  hope. 

{Hurriedly  throwing  a  scarf  over  her  shoulders^ 
Did  you  not  speak  of  a  woman  who  works  miracles? 

THE  VICAR. 

I  did.     Indeed,  'tis  that  has  brought  me  back. 
She  lives   ...   at  most  a  mile  away  from  here   .  .  . 
Her  name  .   .  .    I  can't  recall  it.     But  she  lives, 
If  I  mistake  not,  in  the  pinewood  .    .   .  Ay  .  .   . 
Her  name  .   .  . 

MAGDA. 

Not  Wittikin  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

How  can  you  ask  ! 

Why,  she's  a  wicked  witch,  the  Devil's  dam, 
And  she  must  die.     By  now  they're  up  in  arms, 
Eager  for  battle  with  the  pestilent  fiend. 
With  cudgels,  torches,  stones,  they're  hurrying  fast 
To  make  an  end  of  her.     For  you  must  know 
She's  charged  with  all  the  evil  that  afflicts  us. 
No.     I  was  thinking  of   ...   Frau  Findeklee  .   .  . 
A  shepherd's  widow  .  .  .  and  a  worthy  soul  .  .  . 
Her  husband  left  her  an  old  recipe 
Which,  as  I  am  assured  by  many  here, 
Has  wondrous  virtues.     Will  you  go  for  her? 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  yes,  most  reverend  Sir ! 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II.  51 

THE  VICAR. 

You'll  go  at  once  ? 

[Enter  RAUTENDELEIN,  disguised  as  a  peasant  girl,  and  carry- 
ing a  basket  of  berries  in  her  hand.] 

MAGDA  [to  RAUTENDELEIN]. 

What  wouldst  thou,  child  ?  .  .  .  Who  art  thou  ?  .  .  . 

THE  VICAR. 

Why — 'tis  Anna, 

Anna — the  maiden  from  the  wayside  inn. 
Nay,  'twould  be  vain  to  question  her.     Alas, 
She's  dumb.     A  good  girl.    Ah,  she's  brought  some  berries. 

MAGDA. 

Come  here,  my  child   .   .    .    What  was't  I  wished  to  say  .  .  . 

Ah,  yes  !     This  man  lies  sick.     When  he  awakes 

Be  near  to  help  him.     Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 

Frau  Findeklee     .  .  .  That  was  the  name,  you  said  ?  .  .  . 

But,  no  ;  I  cannot  go.     It  is  too  far. 

If  you'll  stay  here  a  moment,  I  am  sure, 

My  neighbor  will  go  for  me  .    .   .    I'll  come  back. 

And  don't  forget  .  .  .  O  God,  my  heart  will  break ! 

{Exit.} 

THE  VICAR  [to  RAUTENDELEIN]. 

Stand  here,  my  child  ;  or,  if  thou  wilt,  sit  down, 

Be  good  and  do  the  very  best  thou  canst. 

Make  thyself  helpful,  while  they  need  thy  help. 

God  will  reward  thee  for  the  work  thou  doest. 

Thou  art  greatly  changed,  clear  child,  since  last  I  saw  thee. 

But  keep  thou  honest — be  a  good,  true  maid — 

For  the  dear  Lord  has  blessed  thee  with  much  beauty. 

In  truth,  my  dear,  now  that  I  look  at  thee, 

Thou  art,  yet  art  not,  Anna.     As  a  princess, 

Stepped  from  the  pages  of  some  fairy  book, 

Thou  seem'st.     So  quickly  changed  !     Who  would  have  thought 


52  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II. 

It  possible  !     Well,  well !  .  .  .  Thou'lt  keep  him  cool  ? 

He's  burning!     {To  HEINRICH]  May  God  bring   thee  back  to 

health ! 

[£**.] 

[RAUTENDELEIN,  who  till  now  has  seemed  shy  and  meek, 
changes  suddenly  and  bustles  about  the  hearth.] 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Flickering  spark  in  the  ash  of  death, 
Glow  with  life  of  living  breath  ! 
Red,  red  wind,  thy  loudest  blow! 
I,  as  thou,  did  lawless  grow  ! 
Simmer,  sing,  and  simmer! 

\Theflame  leaps  up  on  the  hearth.} 

Kettle  swaying  left  and  right — 
Copper-lid,  thou'rt  none  too  light! 
Bubble,  bubble,  broth  and  brew, 
Turning  all  things  old  to  new ! 

Simmer,  sing,  and  simmer! 
>•"••• 
Green  and  tender  herbs  of  Spring, 
In  the  healing  draught  I  fling. 
Drink  it  sweet,  and  drink  it  hot — 
Life  and  youth  are  in  the  pot ! 

Simmer,  sing,  and  simmer! 

And  now  to  scrape  the  roots  and  fetch  the  water. 
The  cask  is  empty  .  .  .     But  we  need  more  light ! 

[She  throws  the  window  wide  open.] 
A  glorious  day !    But  there'll  be  wind  anon. 
A  mighty  cloud,  in  shape  like  some  huge  fish, 
Lies  on  the  hills.     To-morrow  it  will  burst ; 
And  roystering  spirits  will  ride  madly  down, 
Sweeping  athwart  the  pines,  to  reach  the  vale. 
Cuckoo  !   Cuckoo !  .  .  .  Here,  too,  the  cuckoo  calls, 
And  the  swift  swallow  darts  across  the  sky  .  .  . 

[HEINRICH    has    opened   his   eyes,  and   lies   staring  at 
RAUTENDELEIN.] 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II.  53 

But  now  to  scrape  my  roots,  and  fetch  the  water. 
I've  much  to  do  since  I  turned  waiting-maid. 
Thou,  thou,  dear  flame,  shall  cheer  me  at  my  work. 

HEINRICH  [amazed']. 

Tell  me  ...  who  art  thou? 

RAUTENDELEIN  [quickly  and  unconcernedly]. 
I  ?    Rautendelein. 

HEINRICH. 

Rautendelein  ?     I  never  heard  that  name. 
Yet  somewhere  I  have  seen  thee  once  before. 
Where  was  it  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why,  'twas  on  the  mountain-side. 

HEINRICH. 

True.     True.     'Twas  there — what  time  I  fevered  lay. 

I  dreamt  I  saw  thee  there  .  .  .  Again  I  dream. 

At  times  we  dream  strange  dreams!    See.     Here's  my  house. 

There  burns  the  fire  upon  the  well-known  hearth. 

Here  lie  I,  in  my  bed,  sick  unto  death. 

I  push  the  window  back.     There  flies  a  swallow. 

Yonder  the  nightingales  are  all  at  play. 

Sweet  scents  float  in — of  jasmine  .  .  .  elder-blossom  .  .  . 

I  see  ...  I  feel  ...  I  know  .  .  .  the  smallest  thing — 

Even  to  the  pattern  of  this  coverlet  .  .  . 

Each  thread  .  .  .  each  tiny  knot  ...  I  could  describe — 

And  yet  I'm  dreaming. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  art  dreaming  ?    Why  ? 

HEINRICH   [in  anguish}. 
Because  ...  I  must  be  dreaming. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Art  thou  so  sure  ? 


54  The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act  II. 

HEINRICH. 

Yes.     No.     Yes.     No.     I'm  wandering.     Let  me  dream  on ! 

Thou  askest  if  I  am  so  sure.     I  know  not. 

Ah,  be  it  what  it  will :  or  dream,  or  life — 

It  is.     I  feel  it,  see  it — thou  dost  live ! 

Real  or  unreal,  within  me  or  without, 

Child  of  my  brain,  or  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 

Still  I  do  love  thee,  for  thou  art  thyself. 

So  stay  with  me,  sweet  spirit.     Only  stay !  I  \ 

RAUTENDELEIN.  >.' 

So  long  as  thou  shall  choose. 

HEINRICH. 

Then  ...  I  do  dream. 

RAUTENDELEIN  [familiarly], 

Take  care.     Dost  see  me  lift  this  little  foot 

With  the  rosy  heel  ?     Thou  dost  ?    Why,  that  is  well. 

Now — here's  a  hazel  nut.     I  take  it — so — 

Between  my  finger  and  my  dainty  thumb — 

I  set  my  heel  on  it.     Crack !    Now,  'tis  broken. 

Was  that  a  dream  ? 

HEINRICH. 

That  only  God  can  tell. 

;    . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Now  watch  me.    See.     I'll  come  quite  close  to  thee, 
And  sit  upon  thy  bed.     So.     Here  I  am  !  .  .  . 
Feasting  away  as  merrily  as  thou  wilt  .  .  . 
Hast  thou  not  room  enough  ? 

HEINRICH. 

I've  all  I  need. 

But  tell  me  whence  thou'rt  sprung  and  who  has  sent  thee ! 
What  would'st  thou  of  a  broken,  suffering,  man, 
A  bundle  of  sorrow,  drawing  near  the  end 
Of  his  brief  pilgrimage  .  .  .  ? 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II.  55 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I  like  thee. 

Whence  I  did  spring  I  know  not — nor  could  tell 
Whither  I  go.     But  Granny  said  one  day 
She  found  me  lying  in  the  moss  and  weeds. 
A  hind  did  give  me  suck.     My  home's  the  wood, 
The  mountain-side,  the  crag,  the  storm-swept  moor — 
Where  the  wind  moans  and  rages,  shrieks  and  groans, 
Or  purrs  and  mews,  like  some  wild  tiger-cat ! 
There  thou  wilt  find  me,  whirling  through  the  air ; 
\\    There  I  laugh  loud  and  shout  for  sheer  mad  joy  ; 
Till  faun  and  nixey,  gnome  and  water-sprite, 
Echo  my  joy  and  split  their  sides  with  laughter. 
I'm  spiteful  when  I'm  vexed,  and  scratch  and  bite: 
And  who  should  anger  me  had  best  beware. 
Yet — 'tis  no  better  when  I'm  left  alone: 
For  good  and  bad  in  me's  all  mood  and  impulse. 
I'm  thus,  or  thus,  and  change  with  each  new  whim. 
But  thee  I  am  fond  of  ...  Thee  I  would  not  scratch. 
And,  if  thou  wilt,  I'll  stay.     Yet  were  it  best 
Thou  earnest  with  me  to  my  mountain  home. 
Then  thou  should'st  see  how  faithfully  I'd  serve  thee. 
I'd  show  thee  diamonds,  and  rubies  rare, 
Hid  at  the  bottom  of  unfathomed  deeps. 
/      Emeralds,  and  topazes,  and  amethysts — 
I'd  bring  thee  all — I'd  hang  upon  thy  lids  ! 
Froward,  unruly,  lazy,  I  may  be ; 
Spiteful,  rebellious,  wayward,  what  thou  wilt ! 
Yet  thou  shouldst  only  need  to  blink  thine  eye, 
And  ere  ihou'dst  time  to  speak,  I'd  nod  thee — yes. 
And  Granny  tells  me  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

Ah,  thou  dear,  dear  child. 
Tell  me,  who  is  thy  Granny  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Dost  thou  not  know? 


56  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  II. 

HEINRICH. 
No. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Not  know  Granny  ? 

HEINRICH. 

No,  I  am  a  man, 
And  blind. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Soon  thou  shall  see  !     To  me  is  given 
The  power  to  open  every  eye  I  kiss 
To  the  most  hidden  mysteries  of  earth 
And  air. 

HEINRICH. 

Then  .  .  .  kiss  me! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou'lt  keep  still  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Nay,  try  me ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  {kissing  his  eyes]. 
Ye  eyes,  be  opened ! 

HEINRICH. 

Ah,  thou  lovely  child, 
Sent  to  enchant  me  in  my  dying  hour — 
Thou  fragrant  blossom,  plucked  by  God's  own  hand 
In  the  forgotten  dawn  of  some  dead  Spring — 
Thou  free,  fair,  bud — ah,  were  I  but  that  man 
Who,  in  the  morn  of  life,  fared  forth  so  glad — 
How  I  would  press  thee  to  this  leaping  heart ! 
Mine  eyes  were  blinded.     Now,  they're  filled  with  light, 
And,  as  by  instinct,  I  divine  thy  world. 
Ay,  more  and  more,  as  I  do  drink  thee  in, 
Thou  dear  enigma,  I  am  sure  I  see. 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  IL  57 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why — look  at  me,  then,  till  thine  eyes  are  tired. 

HEINRICH. 

How  golden  gleams  thy  hair!     How  dazzling  bright!  .  .  . 

With  thee  for  company,  thou  dearest  dream, 

Old  Charon's  boat  becomes  a  bark  for  kings, 

That  spreads  its  purple  sails  to  catch  the  sun 

Lighting  it  eastward  on  its  stately  way. 

Feel'st  thou  the  Western  breeze  that  creeps  behind  us, 

Flecking  with  foam  from  tiny  waterfalls 

The  swelling  bosom  of  the  blue  South  seas, 

And  showering  diamonds  on  us  ?     Dost  thou  not  feel  it  ? 

And  we,  reclining  here  on  cloth  of  gold, 

In  blissful  certitude  of  what  must  be, 

Do  scan  the  distance  that  divides  us  twain  .  .  . 

Thou  knowest  well  from  what !  .  .  .   For  thou  hast  seen 

The  fair  green  island,  where  the  birch  bends  down, 

Bathing  its  branches  in  the  azure  flood — 

Thou  hearest  the  glad  song  of  all  Spring's  choirs, 

Waiting  to  welcome  us  ... 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Yes!    Yes!    I  hear  it! 

HEINRICH  {collapsing}. 

So  be  it.    I  am  ready.    When  I  awake, 

A  voice  shall  say  to  me — Come  thou  with  me. 

Then  fades  the  light !   .   .   .   Here  now  the  air  grows  chill. 

The  seer  dies,  as  the  blind  man  had  died. 

But  I  have  seen  thee  .  .  .  seen  .  .  .  thee  .  .  .  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [with  incantations]. 

Master,  sleep  is  thine  ! 
When  thou  wakest,  thou  art  mine. 
Happy  dreams  shall  dull  thy  pain, 
Help  to  make  thee  whole  again. 

[She  bustles  about  by  the  hearth.'] 


58  The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  II. 

Hidden  treasures,  now  grow  bright ! 
In  the  depths  ye  give  no  light. 
Glowing  hounds  in  vain  do  bark, 
Whine  and  whimper  in  the  dark! 
We,  who  serve  him,  glad  will  be  : 
For  the  Master  sets  us  free  ! 

[Addressing  HEINRICH,  and  with  gestures^ 
One,  two,  three.     A  new  man  be ! 
For  the  future  thou  art  free ! 

HEINRICH  \awaking\. 

What's  happened  to  me  ?  ...  From  what  wondrous  sleep 

Am  I  aroused  ?  .  .  .  What  is  this  glorious  sun 

That,  streaming  through  the  window,  gilds  my  hand  ? 

O,  breath  of  morning  !     Heaven,  if  'tis  thy  will — 

If  'tis  thy  strength  that  rushes  through  my  veins — 

If,  as  a  token  of  thy  power,  I  feel 

This  strange,  new,  beating  heart  within  my  breast  ? 

Then,  should  I  rise  again — again  I'd  long 

To  wander  out  into  the  world  of  life  : 

And  wish,  and  strive,  and  hope,  and  dare,  and  do  ... 

And  do  ...  and  do  .  .  .  ! 

[RAUTENDELEIN  has  meanwhile  moved  to  L.  and  stands, 
leaning  against  the  wall,  gazing  fixedly  at  HEIN- 
'RiCH.  A  dazzling  light  falls  on  her  face.  Enter 
MAGDA.] 

Ah,  Magda.    Is  it  thou  ? 

MAGDA. 

Is  he  awake  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Yes,  Magda.    Is  it  thou  ? 

MAGDA  [delightedly]. 
How  is  it  with  thee  ? 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  II.  59 

HEINRICH  [overcome  with  emotion}. 

Well.     Ah,  well!    I'll  live! 
I  feel  it.     I  shall  live  ...  Yes !  I  shall  .  .  .  live ! 

[As  he  speaks,  he  gazes  fixedly,  not  at  MAGDA,  but  at 
RAUTENDELEIN,  who  stands  in  an  elfin  attitude, 
looking  toward  him,  with  an  unnatural  light  on  her 
face.} 

MAGDA. 

[Overjoyed  and  embracing  HEINRICH,  who  seems  uncon- 

scious  of  her  presence. ,] 
He  lives !    He  lives  !    O  dearest  Heinrich  !    Dearest ! 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  THREE. 

A  deserted  glass-works  in  the  mountains,  near  the  snow  fields. 
L.,  an  earthenware  pipe,  through  which  water  from  the 
natural  rock  runs  into  a  natural  stone  trough.  R.,  a  "prac- 
ticable "  smith's  forge,  with  chimney  and  bellows.  Through 
the  open  entrance  to  the  glass-works  at  back,  R.,  is  seen  a 
mountain  landscape,  with  peaks,  moors,  and  dense  fir-woods. 
Close  to  the  entrance  is  a  precipitous  descending  slope.  In 
the  roof  is  an  outlet  for  the  smoke.  L.,  the  rock  forms  a 
rude,  pointed  vault. 

DISCOVERED  :  THE  WOOD- SPRITE.  After  throwing  a  stump 
on  a  heap  of  pinewood  outside,  he  enters,  reluctantly,  and 
looks  round.  THE  NICKELMANN  rises  from  the  water- 
trough,  remaining  immersed  up  to  his  breast. 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Brekekekex!    Come  in! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Ah,  there  thou  art ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Ay.    Plague  upon  this  nasty  smoke  and  soot ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Have  they  gone  out  ? 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Have  who  gone  out  ? 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Why— they. 
60 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  ///.  61 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Yes.     I  suppose  so.     Else  they  would  be  here. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

I've  seen  old  Horny. 

THE  NICKELMANN. 
Ugh! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

.  .  .  With  saw  and  axe. 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

What  did  he  say  ? 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

He  said  .  .  thou  croakedst  much. 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Then  let  the  booby  keep  his  ears  closed  tight. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

And  then  he  said  .  .  .  thou  quackedst  dismally. 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

I'll  wring  his  neck  for  him. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

And  serve  him  right ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

More  necks  than  one  I'd  wring— 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [laughing]. 

Accursed  wight ! 

He  crowds  us  from  our  hills.     He  hacks  and  hews, 
Digs  up  our  metals,  sweats,  and  smelts,  and  brews. 
The  earth-man  and  the  water-sprite  he  takes 
To  drag  his  burdens,  and,  to  harness,  breaks. 


62  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

Our  fairest  elf's  his  sweetheart.     As  for  us, 

We  must  stand  by,  and  watch  them — as  they  buss. 

She  steals  my  cherished  flowers,  my  red-brown  ores, 

My  gold,  my  precious  stones,  my  resinous  stores. 

She  serves  him  like  a  slave,  by  night  and  day. 

'Tis  he  she  kisses — us  she  keeps  at  bay. 

Naught  stands  against  him.     Ancient  trees  he  fells. 

The  earth  quakes  at  his  tread,  and  all  the  dells 

Ring  with  the  echo  of  his  thunderous  blows. 

His  crimson  smithy  furnace  glows  and  shines 

Into  the  depths  of  my  most  secret  mines. 

What  he  is  up  to,  only  Satan  knows  ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

Brekekekex !     Hadst  thou  the  creature  slain, 
A-rotting  in  the  mere  long  since  he  had  lain — 
The  maker  of  the  bell,  beside  the  bell. 
And  so  when  next  I  had  wished  to  throw  the  stones, 
The  bell  had  been  my  box — the  dice,  his  bones  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

By  cock  and  pie !    That,  truly,  had  been  well. 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

But,  as  it  is.  he's  hale  and  strong,  and  works. 
Each  hammer-stroke  my  marrow  thrills  and  irks. 

[  Whimpering^ 

He  makes  her  rings,  and  chains,  and  bracelets  rare- 
Kisses  her  neck,  her  breast,  her  golden  hair. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Now,  by  my  goaty  face,  thou  must  be  crazed. 
An  old  chap  whine  and  whimper?     I'm  amazed. 
He  has  a  fancy  for  the  child  ?     What  then  ? 
'Tis  plain  she  does  not  love  you  water-men. 
Cheer  up  !    Although  she  shall  not  be  thy  bride, 
The  sea  is  deep  :  the  earth  is  long  and  wide. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III.  63 

Catch  some  fair  nixey,  and  your  passion  slake. 
Live  like  a  pacha  :  riot — be  a  rake  ! 
Soon  thou'lt  be  cured  :  and  when  they  hie  to  bed, 
Thou  wilt  not  even  turn  to  wag  thy  head. 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 
I'll  have  his  blood,  I  say !  .  .  . 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

She  dotes  on  him. 
Thou'rt  powerless. 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

I'll  tear  him  limb  from  limb  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

She  will  not  have  thee,  and  thy  rage  is  vain. 
While  Granny  stands  his  friend,  thy  cries  of  pain 
Will  all  be  wasted.     Ay,  this  loving  pair 
Is  closely  guarded.     Patience  !  and  beware  ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 
Patience  ?    I  hate  the  word  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Time  runs  on  fast : 
ft.nd  men  are  men.     Their  passion  is  soon  past. 

RAUTENDELEIN  \heard  singing  without}. 

A  beetle  sat  in  a  tree  ! 

Zum  !    Zum  ! 

A  coat  all  black  and  white  had  he ! 

Zum  !    Zum  ! 

{She  enters^ 

Oho  !     We've  company.     Godden,  Godden  to  you. 
Hast  washed  that  gold  for  me,  good  Nickelmann  ? 
Hast  brought  the  pine-stumps,  as  I  ordered  thee, 
Dear  Goat's-Foot  ?  .  .  .  See  :  I  bend  beneath  the  weight 
Of  the  rare  treasures  I  have  found  to-day. 
Oh,  I'm  no  laggard  when  I  set  to  work ! 


64  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

Here  I  have  diamonds  :  here,  crystals  clear. 
This  little  bag  is  filled  with  gold-dust.     Look  ! 
And  here  is  honeycomb  .  .  .  How  warm  it  grows  ! 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Warm  days  are  followed  by  still  warmer  nights. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Maybe.    Cold  water  is  thine  element : 

So  get  thee  whence  thou  cam'st,  and  cool  thyself. 

[  The  WOOD-SPRITE  laughs.} 
[The  NlCKELMANN  sinks  silently  down  into  his  trough 

and  disappears.'] 
He  will  not  stop  until  he's  angered  me. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [still  laughing]. 
Ods  bobs ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

My  garter's  twisted  at  the  knee  ! 
It  cuts  me.    Oh  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Shall  I  untwist  it,  dear  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

A  pretty  page  thou'dst  make !  .  .  .     No.     Go  away. 
Thou  bring'st  ill  smells  with  thee  .  .  .  and  oh,  the  gnats ! 
Why,  they  are  swarming  round  thee  now,  in  clouds. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

I  love  them  better  than  the  butterflies 
That  flap  their  dusty  wings  about  thy  face, 
Now  hanging  on  thy  lips — now  on  thy  hair, 
Or  clinging  to  thy  hip  and  breast  at  night. 

RAUTENDELEIN  [laughing']. 

There  !    That  will  do.    Enough  ! 


The  SUNKEN    BELL   Act  III.  65 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

A  happy  thought ! 
Give  me  this  cart-wheel.     How  did  it  come  here  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

That  thou  couldst  answer  best,  thou  mischievous  rogue. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Had  I  not  broken  down  the  dray,  I  trow, 

Thy  falcon  were  not  now  meshed  in  thy  net. 

So  give  me  thanks — and  let  me  take  the  thing. 

I'll  have  it  tied  with  ropes,  and  smeared  with  pitch. 

And  when  it's  lighted,  I  will  roll  it  down 

The  steepest  hillside.     Ah  !    That  were  a  joke  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Not  for  the  village-folk.    Their  huts  would  flame. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

The  flame  of  sacrifice  !    The  red,  red  wind  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

But  I'll  not  hear  of  it.     So — get  thee  gone  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Thou'rt  in  a  hurry  ?  .  .  .  Must  I  really  go  ? 
Then  tell  me  first — what  is  the  Master  doing  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

He's  working  a  great  work  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Ah,  yes,  no  doubt! 
We  know  how  bells  are  cast :  by  day 
Ye  work — at  night,  ye  kiss  and  play. 
Hill  pines  for  dale,  dale  pines  for  hill, 
Then,  quick,  the  Master  works  his  will : 
A  bastard  thing,  half  brute,  half  God — 
The  pride  of  Earth — to  Heaven  a  clod. 


66  The  SUNKEN    BELL   Act  III. 

Come  to  the  hazelwoods  with  me  ! 
What  he  could  be  to  thee,  I'll  be. 
To  honor  thee  shall  be  my  pleasure — 
Ape  not  the  Virgin  pure,  my  treasure  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  beast !     Thou  rogue  !     I'll  blind  thy  thankless  eyes, 

Should'st  thou  not  cease  that  Master  to  despise 

Whose  hammer,  clanging  through  the  dark,  long  night, 

Strikes  to  redeem  thee  !  .  .  .  For,  without  his  might, 

Thou,  I,  and  all  of  our  unhappy  race, 

Are  curst,  and  kept  beyond  the  pale  of  grace. 

Yet,  stay  !  ...  Be  what  thou  wilt,  thy  strength  is  vain. 

Here  he,  the  Master,  and  his  will,  must  reign ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

What's  that  to  me  ?  .  .  .     My  greeting  to  thy  love. 
Some  day,  thou'lt  see,  I'll  be  thy  turtle-dove. 

{Exit  laughing.     Short  pause.} 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  ails  me  ?  .  .  .  Here  the  air  seems  close  and  warm. 
I'll  hie  to  some  cool  grot  beside  the  snow. 
The  dripping  water,  green  and  cold  as  ice, 
Will  soon  refresh  me  .  .  .  To-day  I  trod  on  a  snake, 
As  it  lay  sunning  itself  on  a  green  stone. 
It  bit  at  me — up  yonder  by  the  falls. 

Heigho  !    How  close  it  is  !  ...  Steps  !  .  .  .   Hark  !    Who  comes  ? 
\Enter  the  VICAR,  in  mountain  costume.    He  pants  for  breath  as 
he  stands  outside  the  door.} 

THE  VICAR. 

Ho  !  Master  Barber  !    Follow  me.     This  way  ! 
The  road  was  rough.     But  here  I  stand,  at  last. 
Well,  well.     I've  come  to  do  God's  own  good  work. 
My  pains  will  be  repaid  a  hundred-fold 
If,  like  the  Blessed  Shepherd,  I  should  find 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III.  67 

One  poor,  lost  sheep,  and  bring  him  safely  home. 

So,  courage  !     Courage  !     \He  enters^     Is  there  no  one  here  ? 

{He  sees  RAUTENDELEIN.] 
Ah,  there  thou  art.     I  might  have  known  as  much ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [pale  and  angry}. 

What  do  you  seek  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

That  thou  shalt  quickly  learn. 
Ay,  soon  enough,  as  God  shall  be  my  witness. 
Give  me  but  time  to  get  my  breath  again 
And  dry  my  face  a  bit.     And  now,  my  child — 
I  pray  thee,  tell  me— art  thou  here  alone? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  hast  no  right  to  question  me  ! 

THE  VICAR. 

Oho! 

A  pretty  answer,  truly.     But  thou  art  frank — 
Thou  showest  me  thy  very  self  at  once. 
So  much  the  better.     Now  my  course  is  plain. 
Thou  creature !  .  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Man,  beware ! 

THE  VICAR. 

[Folding  his  hands  and  approaching  her.] 

I  fear  thee  not ! 

My  heart  is  pure  and  true.     Thou  canst  not  harm  me. 
He  who  did  give  my  poor  old  limbs  the  strength 
To  brave  thee  in  thy  hidden  mountain  home 
Will  not  forsake  me  now.     Thou  devilish  thing, 
Think  not  to  daunt  me  with  thy  scornful  glance — 
Waste  thy  infernal  witchcraft  not  on  me ! 
Thou — thou  hast  lured  him  hither — to  thy  hills ! 


68  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Whom? 

THE  VICAR. 

Whom  ?     Why,  Master  Heinrich.     Canst  thou  ask  ? 
With  magic  spells,  and  sweet  unhallowed  draughts, 
Thou  hast  witched  him,  till  he  obeys  thee  like  a  dog. 
A  man  so  upright,  pious  to  the  core  ; 
A  father  and  a  husband  !     Thou  great  God  ! 
This  mountain  trull  had  but  to  raise  her  hand 
And,  in  a  trice,  she  had  tied  him  to  her  skirts, 
Dragged  him  away  with  her,  where'er  she  pleased, 
Shaming  the  honor  of  all  Christendom. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

If  I'm  a  robber,  'twas  not  thou  I  robbed  ! 

THE  VICAR. 

What !    'Tis  not  I  thou  hast  robbed  ?     Thou  insolent  jade, 

Not  me  alone,  not  only  his  wife  and  boys — 

No — all  mankind  thou  hast  cheated  of  this  man  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

[Suddenly  transformed  and  in  triumph^ 
Ah,  look  before  thee !    See  who  comes  this  way! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  the  free  and  even  sound 
Of  his  firm  footsteps  ?    Shall  thy  sland'rous  flouts 
Not  even  now  be  turned  to  joyous  shouts  ? 
Dost  thou  not  feel  my  Balder's  conqu'ring  glance 
Dart  through  thy  soul,  and  stir  thee,  as  the  dance  ? 
The  grass  his  foot  treads  down  is  proud  and  glad. 
A  King  draws  nigh !     Thou,  beggarly  wretch,  art  sad  ? 
Hail !     Hail !    O  Master,  Master  !    Thee  I  greet ! 

[She  runs  to  meet  HEINRICH,  and  throws  herself  into  his 

arms  as  he  enters.] 
[HEINRICH  is  attired  in  a  picturesque  -working  costume. 

In  his  hand  he  holds  a  hammer.     He  enters  hand  in 

hand   with     RAUTENDELEIN,    and    recognizes    the 

VICAR.] 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III.  69 

HEINRICH. 

Welcome !    Thrice  welcome,  friend  ! 

THE  VICAR. 

Now  God  be  praised ! 
Beloved  Master :  is  it  yourself  I  see  ? 
You,  who  but  lately  came  so  near  to  death, 
Now  stand  before  me,  beaming  with  rude  strength, 
Straight  as  a  stout  young  beech,  and  hale  and  well — 
You,  who  did  seem  a  sickly,  tottering  man, 
Hopeless,  and  ageing  ?     What  has  wrought  this  change  ? 
How,  in  a  moment,  has  the  grace  of  God, 
With  but  a  puff  of  His  all-quickening  breath, 
Helped  you  to  spring  from  your  sick-bed  to  life, 
Ready  to  dance,  as  David  danced,  and  sing, 
Praising  the  Lord,  your  Saviour  and  your  King ! 

HEINRICH. 

Tis  even  as  you  say. 

THE  VICAR. 

You  are  a  marvel ! 

HEINRICH. 

That  also  is  true.     In  all  my  frame  I  feel 
Wonders  are  being  worked. 

[To  Rautendeletn.] 
Go  thou,  my  dear. 
The  Vicar  must  be  thirsty.    Bring  some  wine. 

THE  VICAR. 

I  thank  you.     But— I  will  not  drink  to-day. 

HEINRICH. 

Go.     Bring  the  wine.     I'll  vouch  for  it.     Tis  good. 
Well — as  you  please.     I  pray  you,  do  not  stand. 
This  is  my  first  encounter  with  a  friend 


70  The   SUNKEN    BELL   Act  III. 

Since  I  released  myself  from  the  distress 

And  shame  that  sickness  brings.     I  had  not  hoped 

To  welcome  you,  before  all  others,  here — 

Within  the  narrow  sphere  that  bounds  my  work. 

Now  am  I  doubly  glad  :  for  now  'tis  clear 

You  have  learned  what  strength,  and  love,  and  duty  mean. 

I  see  you  breaking,  with  one  resolute  blow, 

The  murderous  chains  of  worldly  interest — 

Fleeing  mankind,  to  seek  the  one  true  God. 

THE  VICAR. 

Now,  God  be  thanked  !    You  are  the  old,  true,  Heinrich 
They  lied,  who,  in  the  valley,  had  proclaimed 
You  were  no  more  the  man  that  once  we  knew. 

HEINRICH. 

That  man  am  I,  and  yet  ...  another  man. 
Open  the  windows — Light  and  God  stream  in  ! 

THE  VICAR. 
A  goodly  saying. 

HEINRICH. 

Ay.     The  best  I  know. 

THE  VICAR. 

I  know  some  better.    Yet  your  saying's  good. 

HEINRICH. 

Then,  if  you  are  ready,  give  me  your  right  hand. 
I  swear,  by  Cock  and  Swan  and  Head  of  Horse, 
With  all  my  soul  to  serve  you  as  your  friend. 
I'll  open  to  you  wide  the  gates  of  Spring — 
The  Spring  that  fills  my  heart. 

THE  VICAR. 

Do  as  you  say. 
Twill  not  be  the  first  time.     You  know  me  well. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III.  ^l 

HEINRICH. 

I  know  you.    Yes.    And  though  I  knew  you  not, 
Yea,  though  a  vulgar  soul  your  face  should  hide, 
So  boundless  is  my  craving  to  do  good, 

That  I .     Enough.     Gold  always  will  be  gold. 

And  even  on  the  souls  of  sycophants 
Good  seed's  not  wasted. 

THE  VICAR. 

Master,  tell  me  this : 
What  was  the  meaning  of  your  curious  oath  ? 

HEINRICH. 

By  Cock  and  Swan  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

Ay ;  and  by  Head  of  Horse  ? 

HEINRICH. 

I  know  not  how  the  words  came  to  my  lips  .  .  . 

Methinks  .  .  .  the  weathercock  on  your  church  steeple — 

The  horse's  head  upon  your  neighbor's  roof — 

The  swan  that  soared  into  the  bright  blue  sky — 

Or  ...  something  else — was  in  my  mind  just  then. 

What  does  it  matter?  .  .  .  Ah,  here  comes  the  wine. 

Now,  in  the  deepest  sense  of  every  word, 

i  drink  to  our  good  health  .  .  .  yours  .  .  .  thine  .  .  .  and  mine. 

THE  VICAR. 

I  thank  you  :  and  once  more  I  wish  good  health 
To  him  who  has  so  wondrously  been  healed. 

HEINRICH  {pacing  to  and  fro]. 

Yes.     I  am  healed — indeed.     I  feel  it  here— 
Here,  in  my  breast,  that  swells  as  I  draw  in 
Strength  and  new  rapture  with  each  living  breath, 


72  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

It  is  as  though  the  very  youth  of  May 
Gladdened  my  heart  and  streamed  into  my  being. 
I  feel  it  in  my  arm — 'tis  hard  as  steel ; 
And  in  my  hand,  that,  as  the  eagle's  claw, 
Clutches  at  empty  air,  and  shuts  again, 
Wild  with  impatience  to  achieve  great  deeds. 
Saw  you  the  sanctuary  in  my  garden  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

HEINRICH. 

There  !  .  .  .  "Tis  another  marvel. 
Look! 

THE  VICAR. 

„  I  see  nothing. 

HEINRICH. 

I  mean  yonder  tree, 

That  seems  so  like  a  glowing  evening-cloud. 
For  the  god  Freyr  once  rested  in  its  boughs. 
From  its  green  branches,  and  from  round  its  stem, 
Comes  the  voluptuous  hum  of  countless  bees — 
Hark  how  they  buzz  and  swarm  about  the  flowers 
Eager  to  sip  sweet  draughts  from  every  bud  ! 
I  feel  that  I  am  like  that  wondrous  tree  .  .  . 
Even  as  he  came  clown  into  those  boughs, 
So  did  the  god  descend  into  my  soul, 
And,  in  an  instant,  it  was  all  a-bloom. 
If  any  bees  go  thirsting,  let  them  suck ! 

THE  VICAR. 

Go  on,  go  on,  my  friend.     I  love  to  listen. 

You  and  your  blossoming  tree  indeed  may  boast. 

Whether  your  fruit  shall  ripen,  rests  with  God  ! 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act  III.  73 

HEINRICH. 

Surely,  dear  friend.     Does  He  not  order  all  ? 

He  hurled  me  down  the  precipice.     'Twas  He 

Who  raised  me  up  and  caused  my  life  to  bloom. 

He  made  the  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  all  that  grows. 

Yet — pray  that  He  may  bless  my  new-born  Summer ! 

What's  germed  within  me's  worthy  of  the  blessing — 

Worthy  of  ripening :  really  and  indeed. 

It  is  a  work  like  none  I  had  yet  conceived  ; 

A  chime,  of  all  the  noblest  metals  wrought, 

That,  of  itself,  shall  ring  and,  ringing,  live. 

If  I  but  put  my  hand  up  to  my  ear, 

Straightway  I  hear  it  sing.     I  close  my  eyes — 

Form  after  form  at  once  grows  palpable. 

Behold.     What  now  is  freely  given  to  me, 

Of  old — when  ye  were  wont  to  acclaim  me  "  Master  " — 

In  nameless  agony,  I  vainly  sought. 

I  was  no  Master  then,  nor  was  I  happy. 

Now  am  I  both  ;  I  am  happy  and  a  Master  ! 

THE  VICAR. 

I  love  to  hear  men  call  you  by  that  name. 

Yet  it  seems  strange  that  you  yourself  should  do  so. 

For  what  church  are  you  making  your  great  work  ? 

HEINRICH. 

For  no  church. 

THE  VICAR. 

Then — who  ordered  it,  my  friend  ? 

HEINRICH. 

He  who  commanded  yonder  pine  to  rise 
In  strength  and  majesty  beside  the  abyss  !  .  .  . 
But — seriously  :  the  little  church  you  had  built 
Lies  half  in  ruins — half  it  has  been  burned. 
So  I  must  find  a  new  place  on  the  heights  : 
A  new  place,  for  a  new,  a  nobler,  temple ! 


74  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III 

THE  VICAR. 

O,  Master,  Master !  .  .  .  But,  I  will  not  argue. 
Perchance  we  have  misunderstood  each  other. 
To  put  things  plainly,  what  I  mean  is  this  : 
As  your  new  work  must  cost  so  very  dear  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

Yes.     It  is  costly. 

THE  VICAR. 

Such  a  chime  as  yours  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

Oh,  call  it  what  you  will. 

THE  VICAR. 

You  said — a  chime  ? 

HEINRICH. 

A  name  I  gave  to  that  which  none  may  name, 
Nor  can,  nor  shall  baptize,  except  itself. 

THE  VICAR. 

And  tell  me,  pray — who  pays  you  for  your  work  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Who  pays  me  for  my  work  ?    Oh,  Father  !  Father ! 

Would  you  give  joy  to  joy — add  gold  to  gold  ?  .  .  . 

If  I  so  named  it,  and  the  name  you  love — 

Call  my  great  work — a  chime  !  .  .  .  But  'tis  a  chime 

Such  as  no  minster  in  the  world  has  seen. 

Loud  and  majestic  is  its  mighty  voice. 

Even  as  the  thunder  of  a  storm  it  sounds, 

Rolling  and  crashing  o'er  the  meads  in  Spring. 

Ay,  in  the  tumult  of  its  trumpet-tones, 

All  the  church-bells  on  earth  it  shall  strike  dumb. 

All  shall  be  hushed,  as  through  the  sky  it  rings 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III.  75 

The  glad  new  Gospel  of  the  new-born  light ! 

Eternal  Sun  !  *  Thy  children,  and  my  children, 

Know  thee  for  Father,  and  proclaim  thy  power. 

Thou,  aided  by  the  kind  and  gentle  rain, 

Didst  raise  them  from  the  dust  and  give  them  health  ! 

So  now — their  joy  triumphant  they  shall  send 

Singing  along  thy  clear,  bright,  path  to  Heaven  ! 

And  now,  at  last,  like  the  grey  wilderness 

That  thou  hast  warmed,  and  mantled  with  thy  green, 

Me  thou  hast  kindled  into  sacrifice  ! 

I  offer  thee  myself,  and  all  I  am  !  .  .  . 

O  Day  of  Light — when,  from  the  marble  halls 

Of  my  fair  Temple,  the  first  waking  peal 

Shall  shake  the  skies — when,  from  the  sombre  clouds 

That  weighed  upon  us  through  the  winter  night, 

Rivers  of  jewels  shall  go  rushing  clown 

Into  a  million  hands  outstretched  to  clutch  ! 

Then  all  who  drooped,  with  sudden  power  inflamed, 

Shall  bear  their  treasure  homeward  to  their  huts, 

There  to  unfurl,  at  last,  the  silken  banners, 

Waiting — so  long,  so  long — to  be  upraised, 

And,  pilgrims  of  the  Sun,  draw  near  the  Feast ! 

O,  Father,  that  great  Day  !  .  .  .  You  know  the  tale 
Of  the  lost  Prodigal  ?  ...  It  is  the  Sun 
That  bids  his  poor,  lost,  children  to  my  Feast. 
With  rustling  banners,  see  the  swelling  host 
Draw  nearer,  and  still  nearer  to  my  Temple. 
And  now  the  wondrous  chime  again  rings  out, 
Filling  the  air  with  such  sweet,  passionate  sound 
As  makes  each  breast  to  sob  with  rapturous  pain. 
It  sings  a  song,  long  lost  and  long  forgotten, 
A  song  of  home — a  childlike  song  of  Love, 
Born  in  the  waters  of  some  fairy  well — 
Known  to  all  mortals,  and  yet  heard  of  none  ! 

*  In  the  German  the  Sun  is  feminine.     The  original  passage  has  con- 
sequently been  modified. 


76  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

And  as  it  rises,  softly  first,  and  low, 

The  nightingale  and  dove  seem  singing,  too  ; 

And  all  the  ice  in  every  human  breast 

Is  melted,  and  the  hate,  and  pain,  and  woe, 

Stream  out  in  tears. 

Then  shall  we  all  draw  nearer  to  the  Cross, 

And,  still  in  tears,  rejoice,  until  at  last 

The  dead  Redeemer,  by  the  Sun  set  free, 

His  prisoned  limbs  shall  stir  from  their  long  sleep, 

And,  radiant  with  the  joy  of  endless  youth, 

Come  down,  Himself  a  youth,  into  the  May  ! 

[HElNRlCH's  enthusiasm  has  swelled  as  he  has  spoken  the 
foregoing  speech,  till  at  last  it  has  become  ecstatic. 
He  walks  to  and  fro.  RAUTENDELEIN,  who  has  been 
silently  watching  him  all  this  time,  showing  her  love 
and  adoration  by  the  changing  expression  of  her 
face,  now  approaches  HEINRICH,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  kneels  beside  him,  and  kisses  his  hand.  The 
VlCAR  has  listened  to  HEINRICH  with  growing  pain 
and  horror.  Towards  the  end  of  HEINRICH'S  speech 
he  has  contained  himself  with  difficulty.  After  a 
brief  pause  he  answers.  At  first  he  speaks  with  en- 
forced calm.  Gradually,  however,  his  feeling  carries 
him  awayj] 

THE  VICAR. 

And  now,  dear  Master,  I  have  heard  you  out : 
Now  every  syllable  those  worthy  men 
Had  told  me  of  your  state,  alas,  is  proved. 
Yea,  even  to  the  story  of  this  chime  of  bells. 
I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  pain  I  feel !  .  .  . 
A  truce  to  empty  words !     If  here  I  stand, 
'Tis  not  because  I  thirsted  for  your  marvels. 
No  !     'Tis  to  help  you  in  your  hour  of  need  ! 

HEINRICH. 

My  need  ?  .  .  .  And  so  you  think  I  am  in  need  ? 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III.  77 

THE  VICAR. 

Man  !  Man  !    Bestir  yourself.    Awake  !    You  dream  ! 
A  dreadful  dream,  from  which  you'll  surely  wake 
To  everlasting  sorrow.     Should  I  fail 
To  rouse  you,  with  God's  wise  and  holy  words, 
You  are  lost,  ay,  lost  for  ever,  Master  Heinrich  ! 

HEINRICH. 

I  do  not  think  so. 

THE  VICAR. 

What  saith  the  Good  Book  ?  * 
"  Those  whom  He  would  destroy,  He  first  doth  blind." 

HEINRICH. 

If  God  so  willed  it — you'd  resist  in  vain. 

Yet,  should  I  own  to  blindness, 

Filled  as  I  feel  myself  with  pure,  new  life, 

Bedded  upon  a  glorious  morning  cloud, 

Whence  with  new  eyes  I  drink  in  all  the  heavens  ; 

Why,  then,  indeed,  I  should  deserve  God's  curse, 

And  endless  Darkness. 

THE  VICAR. 

Master  Heinrich — friend, 
I  am  too  humble  to  keep  pace  with  you. 
A  simple  man  am  I — a  child  of  Earth  : 
The  superhuman  lies  beyond  my  grasp. 
But  one  thing  I  do  know,  though  you  forget, 
That  wrong  is  never  right,  nor  evil,  good. 

HEINRICH. 

And  Adam  did  not  know  so  much  in  Eden ! 

*  So  it  stands  in  the  original. 


;S  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

THE  VICAR. 

Fine  phrases,  sounding  well,  but  meaningless. 
They  will  not  serve  to  cloak  your  deadly  sin. 
It  grieves  me  sore — I  would  have  spared  you  this. 
You  have  a  wife,  and  children  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

Well — what  more  ? 

THE  VICAR. 

You  shun  the  church,  take  refuge  in  the  mountains ; 
This  many  a  month  you  have  not  seen  the  home 
Where  your  poor  wife  sits  sighing,  while,  each  day, 
Your  children  drink  their  lonely  mother's  tears ! 

[A 

HEINRICH  [with  emotion}. 

Could  I  but  wipe  away  those  sorrowful  tears, 

How  gladly  would  I  do  it !  .  .  .  But  I  cannot. 

In  my  dark  hours,  I've  digged  into  my  soul, 

Only  to  feel,  I  have  no  power  to  dry  them. 

I,  who  am  now  all  love,  in  love  renewed, 

Out  of  the  overflowing  wealth  I  own, 

May  not  fill  up  their  cup  !     For,  lo,  my  wine 

Would  be  to  them  but  bitter  gall  and  venom  ! 

Should  he  whose  hand  is  as  the  eagle's  claw 

Stroke  a  sick  child's  wet  cheek  ?  .  .  .  Here  none  but  God 

Could  help ! 

THE  VICAR. 

For  this  there  is  no  name  but  madness, 
And  wicked  madness.     Yes.     I  speak  the  truth. 
Here  stand  I,  Master,  overcome  with  horror 
At  the  relentless  cruelty  of  your  heart. 
Now  Satan,  aping  God,  hath  dealt  a  blow — 
Yes,  I  must  speak  my  mind — a  blow  so  dread 
That  even  he  must  marvel  at  his  triumph. 


The  SUNKEN    BELL   Act  III.  79 

That  work,  Almighty  God,  whereof  he  prates — 
Do  I  not  know  't  ?  .  .  .  Tis  the  most  awful  crime 
Ever  was  hatched  within  a  heathen  brain ! 
Far  rather  would  I  see  the  dreadful  plagues 
Wherewith  the  Lord  once  scourged  rebellious  Egypt 
Threaten  our  Christendom,  than  watch  your  Temple 
Rise  to  the  glory  of  Beelzebub. 
Awake  !    Arise  !    Come  back,  my  son,  to  Christ ! 
It  is  not  yet  too  late !    Cast  out  this  witch  ! 
Renounce  this  wanton  hag — ay,  cast  her  out ! 
This  elf,  this  sorceress,  this  cursed  sprite  ! 
Then  in  a  trice,  the  evil  spell  shall  fade 
And  vanish  into  air.     You  shall  be  saved  ! 

HEINRICH. 

What  time  I  fevered  lay,  a  prey  to  death, 

She  came,  and  raised  me  up,  and  made  me  well 

THE  VICAR. 

'Twere  better  you  had  died — than  live  like  this ! 

HEINRICH.  . 

Why,  as  to  that,  think  even  as  you  will. 
But,  as  for  me — I  took  life's  burden  up. 
I  live  anew,  and,  till  death  comes,  must  thank 
Her  who  did  give  me  life. 

THE  VICAR. 

Now — I  have  done  ! 

Too  deep,  yea  to  the  neck,  you  are  sunk  in  sin  ! 
Your  Hell,  decked  out  in  beauty  as  high  Heaven, 
Shall  hold  you  fast.     I  will  not  waste  more  words. 
Yet  mark  this,  Master :  witches  make  good  fuel, 
Even  as  heretics,  for  funeral-pyres. 
Vox  popult,  vox  Dei  !    Your  ill  deeds, 
Heathen,  and  secret  once,  are  now  laid  bare. 
Horror  they  wake,  and  soon  there  shall  come  hate. 


8o  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  III. 

So  it  may  happen  that  the  storm,  long-curbed, 
All  bounds  shall  overleap,  and  that  the  people 
Whom  you  have  outraged  in  their  holiest  faith, 
Shall  rise  against  you  in  their  own  defence, 
And  crush  you  ruthlessly  ! 

[Pause.] 

HEINRICH  {calmly}. 

And  now  hear  me  .  .  . 

I  fear  you  not !  .  .  .  Should  they  who  panting  lie 
Dash  from  my  hand  the  cup  of  cooling  wine 
I  bore  to  them  :  if  they  would  rather  thirst — 
Why,  then,  it  is  their  will — perhaps  their  fate — 
And  none  may  justly  charge  me  with  their  act. 
I  am  no  longer  thirsty.     I  have  drunk. 
If  it  is  fitting  that,  of  all  men,  you — 
Who  have  closed  your  eyes  against  the  truth — should  be 
That  man  who  now  assails  so  hatefully 
The  blameless  cup-bearer,  and  flings  the  mud 
Of  Darkness  'gainst  his  soul,  where  all  is  light : 
Yet  I  am  I !  .  .  .  What  I  would  work,  I  know. 
And  if,  ere  now,  full  many  a  faulty  bell 
My  stroke  has  shattered,  once  again  will  I 
Swing  my  great  hammer,  for  a  mightier  blow, 
Dealt  at  another  bell  the  mob  has  made — 
Fashioned  of  malice,  gall,  and  all  ill  things, 
Last  but  not  least  among  them  ignorance. 

THE  VICAR. 

Then,  go  your  way  !    Farewell.     My  task  is  done. 

The  hemlock  of  your  sin  no  man  may  hope 

To  rid  your  soul  of.     May  God  pity  you  ! 

But  this  remember  !  There's  a  word  named  rue  ! 

And  some  day,  some  day,  as  your  dreams  you  dream, 

A  sudden  arrow,  shot  from  out  the  blue, 

Shall  pierce  your  breast !     And  yet  you  shall  not  die, 

Nor  shall  you  live.     In  that  dread  day  you'll  curse 

All  you  now  cherish — God,  the  world,  your  work, 

Your  wretched  self  you'll  curse.     Then   .   .   think  of  me-' 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  HI.  81 

HEINRICH. 

Had  I  a  fancy  to  paint  phantoms,  Vicar, 

I'd  be  more  skilful  in  the  art  than  you. 

The  things  you  rave  of  never  shall  come  true, 

And  I  am  guarded  well  against  your  arrow. 

No  more  it  frets  me,  nor  my  heart  can  shake, 

Than  that  old  bell,  which  in  the  water  rolled — 

Where  it  lies  buried  now,  and  hushed — forever ! 

THE  VICAR. 

That  bell  shall  toll  again  !    Then  think  of  me  ! 


CURTAIN. 


ACT  FOUR. 

SCENE:  The  glass-works  as  in  Act  Three.  A  rude  door  has 
been  hewn  out  of  the  rocky  wall,  L.  Through  this,  access  is 
obtained  to  a  mountain-cave.  R.,  the  open  forge,  with  bel- 
lows and  chimney.  The  fire  is  lighted.  Near  the  forge 
stands  an  anvil. 

DISCOVERED  :  HEINRICH,  at  the  anvil,  on  which  he  is  laying  a 
bar  of  red-hot  iron  which  he  holds  tight  with  his  tongs. 
Near  him  stand  six  little  DWARFS  attired  as  mountaineers. 
The  FIRST  DWARF  holds  the  tongs  with  HEINRICH  ;  the 
SECOND  DWARF  lifts  the  great  forge  hammer  and  brings  it 
down  with  a  ringing  blow  on  the' iron.  The  THIRD  DWARF 
works  the  bellows.  The  FOURTH  DWARF  stands  motionless, 
intently  watching  the  progress  of  the  work.  The  FIFTH 
DWARF  stands  by,  waiting.  In  his  hand  he  holds  a  club, 
ready  to  strike.  The  SIXTH  DWARF  sits  perched  on  the 
stump  of  a  tree.  On  his  head  he  wears  a  glittering  crown. 
Here  and  there  lie  fragments  of  forged  iron  and  cast- 
ings, models  and  plans. 

HEINRICH  [to  SECOND  DWARF]. 

Strike  hard  !     Strike  harder  !    Till  thy  arm  hangs  limp. 
Thy  whimpering  does  not  move  me,  thou  poor  sluggard — 
Shouldst  thou  relax  before  the  time  I  set, 
I'll  singe  thy  beard  for  thee  in  these  red  flames. 

[SECOND  DWARF  throws  his  hammer  down.} 
Oho  !     'Tis  as  I  thought.     Well,  wait,  thou  imp  ! 
And  thou  shalt  see  I  mean  what  I  have  threaten'd  ! 

[SECOND  DWARF  struggles  and  screams  as  HEINRICH 
holds  him  ouer  the  fire.     THIRD  DWARF^WJ  to  work 
more  busily  than  ever  at  the  bellows.~\ 
82 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  83 

FIRST  DWARF  [with  the  tongs]. 
I  can't  hold  on.    My  hand  is  stiff,  great  Master  ! 

HEINRICH. 

I'm  coming. 

[He  turns  to  SECOND  DWARF.] 
Well,  dost  thou  feel  stronger  now  ? 

[SECOND  DWARF  nods  reassuringly,  and  hammers  away 
for  dear  life.'] 

HEINRICH. 

By  Cock  and  Swan !    I'll  have  no  mercy  on  you ! 

[He  clutches  the  tongs  again.] 
No  blacksmith  living  could  a  horseshoe  shape 
An  he  should  stand  on  trifles  with  such  rogues. 
No  sooner  have  they  struck  the  first  good  stroke 
When  off  they'd  go,  and  leave  the  rest  to  chance. 
And  as  for  counting  on  them  for  the  zeal 
That  spurs  an  honest  workman  to  attempt 
Ten  thousand  miracles — why,  'twould  be  mad. 
To  work  !    To  work  !    Hot  iron  bends — not  cold  ! 

[To  FIRST  DWARF.] 
What  art  thou  at  ? 

FIRST  DWARF. 

[Busily  trying  to  mould  the  red-hot  iron  with  his  hand.] 
I'm  moulding  it  with  my  hand. 

HEINRICH. 

Thou  reckless  fool.    What  ?    Hast  thou  lost  thy  wits  ? 
Wouldst  thou  reduce  thy  clumsy  paw  to  ashes  ? 
Thou  wretched  dwarf,  if  thou  shouldst  fail  me  now, 
What  power  had  I  ?  .  .  .  Without  thy  helping  art, 
How  could  I  hope  to  see  my  cherished  work 
Rise  from  the  summit  of  my  temple  towers 
Into  the  free  and  sunlit  air  of  heaven  ? 


84  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

FIRST  DWARF. 

The  iron  is  well  forged.     The  hand  is  whole — 
Deadened  and  numbed  a  little :  that  is  all. 

HEINRICH. 

Off  to  the  well  with  thee !    The  Nickelmann 
Will  cool  thy  fingers  with  his  water-weeds. 

[  To  the  SECOND  DWARF.] 

Now  take  the  rest  thou'st  earned,  thou  lazy  imp, 
And  make  the  most  of  it.     I'll  comfort  seek 
In  the  reward  that  comes  of  honest  effort. 

[He  picks  up  the  newly  forged  iron,  sits,  and  examines  /'/.] 
Ah,  here's  rare  work  for  you  !    The  kindly  powers 
Have  crowned  our  labor  with  this  good  result. 
I  am  content.     Methinks  I  have  cause  to  be, 
Since,  out  of  shapelessness,  a  shape  has  grown, 
And,  out  of  chaos,  this  rare  masterpiece  : 
Nicely  proportioned — here  .  .  .  above  .  .  .  below  .  .  . 
Just  what  was  needed  to  complete  the  work. 

[The  FOURTH  DWARF  clambers  on  to  a  stool  and  whispers 

in  HEINRICH'S  ear.] 

What  art  thou  muttering,  imp?     Disturb  me  not, 
Lest  I  should  tie  thy  hands  and  feet  together, 
And  clap  a  gag  into  thy  chattering  throat  ! 

[DWARF  retreats  in  a/arm.] 

What's  out  of  joint  in  the  great  scheme  ?    What's  wrong? 
What  irks  thee  ?    Speak  when  thou  art  questioned,  dwarf ! 
Never  as  now  was  I  so  filled  with  joy ; 
Never  were  heart  and  hand  more  surely  one. 
What  art  thou  grumbling  at  ?    Am  I  not  Master  ? 
Wouldst  thou,  poor  hireling,  dare  to  vie  with  me  ? 
Well — out  with  it !    Thy  meaning — Speak  !    Be  plain  ! 

[DWARF  returns  and  -whispers.    HEINRICH  turns  pale, 

sighs,  rises,  and  angrily  lays  the  iron  on  the  anvil.] 
Then  may  the  Devil  end  this  work  himself ! 
I'll  grow  potatoes,  and  plant  cabbages. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act  IV.  85 

I'll  eat  and  drink  and  sleep,  and  then — I'll  die ! 

[FIFTH  DWARF  approaches  the  anvil.'} 
Thou,  fellow,  do  not  dare  to  lay  thy  hand  on  't! 
Ay,  burst  with  fury,  an  thou  wilt.     I  care  not. 
And  let  thy  hair  stand  straight  on  end — thy  glance 
Dart  death.     Thou  rogue  !     Who  yields  but  once  to  thee, 
Or  fails  to  hold  thee  tightly  in  his  clutch, 
Might  just  as  well  bow  down  and  be  thy  slave, 
And  wait  till,  with  thy  club,  thou  end  his  pain  ! 

[FIFTH  DWARF  angrily  shatters  the  iron  on  the  anvil ; 

HElNRICH^^vW-y  his  teeth  with  rage.] 
Well,  well !     Run  riot !     No  more  work  to-night. 
A  truce  to  duty.     Get  ye  hence,  ye  dwarfs  ! 
Should  morning,  as  I  hope,  put  fresh,  new  life 
Into  this  frame  of  mine — I'll  call  ye  back. 
Go  ! — Work  unbidden  would  avail  me  naught. 

[  To  THIRD  DWARF.] 

Come — drop  thy  bellows,  dwarf.     With  all  thy  might, 
Thou'dst  hardly  heat  me  a  new  iron  to-night. 

Away !    Away ! 
[All  the  DWARFS,  with  the  exception  of  the  one  with  the 

crown,  vanish  through  the  door  Z,.] 
And  thou,  crowned  King,  who  only  once  shalt  speak — 
Why  dost  thou  linger  ?     Get  thee  gone,  I  say. 
Thou  wilt  not  speak  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  : 
Heaven  only  knows  if  thou  wilt  ever  speak ! 

My  work !  .  .  .     My  work !  When  will   it   end  !  .  .  .    I'm  tired ! 
I  love  thee  not,  sad  twilight  hour,  that  liest 
Pressed  'twixt  the  dying  day  and  growing  night. 
Thou  wringest  from  my  nerveless  hand  the  hammer, 
Yet  bring'st  me  not  the  sleep,  the  dreamless  sleep, 
That  gives  men  rest.     A  heart  athirst  for  work 
Knows  it  must  wait,  and  wait  in  idleness  : 
And  so — in  pain — it  waits  .  .  .  for  the  new  day. 
The  sun,  wrapped  round  in  purple,  slowly  sinks 
Into  the  depths  .  .  .    and  leaves  us  here  alone. 
While  we,  who  are  used  to  light,  look  helpless  on, 
And,  stripped  of  everything,  must  yield  to  night. 


86  The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act  IV. 

Rags  are  the  coverlets  that  cloak  our  sleep. 

At  noon  we're  kings  ...  at  dusk  we're  only  beggars. 

[He  throws  himself  on  a  couch  and  lies  dreaming,  with 
wide-open  eyes.  A  white  mist  comes  in  through  the 
open  door.  When  it  disappears,  the  NICKELMANN  is 
discovered  leaning  over  the.  edge  of  the  water-trough.} 


THE  NICKELMANN. 

Quorax !  .  .  .  Brekekekex  !  ...  So  there  he  lies — 

This  Master  Earth-Worm — in  his  mossgrown  house. 

He's  deaf  and  blind,  while  crookback  imps  do  creep 

Like  the  grey  mists  upon  the  mountain-side. 

Now  they  uplift  their  shadowy  hands,  and  threaten  ! 

Now  they  go  wringing  them,  as  though  in  pain  ! 

He  sleeps  !     He  does  not  heed  the  moaning  pines  ; 

The  low,  malignant  piping  of  the  elves 

That  makes  the  oldest  fir-trees  quake  and  thrill, 

And,  like  a  hen  that  flaps  her  foolish  wings, 

Beat  their  own  boughs  against  their  quivering  flanks  .  .  .  ! 

Now,  he  grows  chiller,  as  the  winter-grey 

Searches  the  marrow  in  his  bones.     And  still, 

Even  in  sleep,  he  toils  ! 

Give  over,  fool !    Thou  canst  not  fight  with  God  ! 

'Twas  God  that  raised  thee  up,  to  prove  thy  strength  ; 

And  now,  since  thou  art  weak,  He  casts  thee  down  ! 

[HEINRICH  tosses  about  and  moans  in  his  sleep.} 
Vain  is  thy  sacrifice.     For  Sin  is  Sin. 
Thou  hast  not  wrung  from  God  the  right  to  change 
Evil  to  good — or  wages  give  to  guilt. 
Thou'rt  foul  with  stains.     Thy  garments  reek  with  blood. 
Now,  call  thou  ne'er  so  loud,  the  gentle  hand 
That  might  have  washed  thee  clean,  thou'lt  never  see ! 
Black  spirits  gather  in  the  hills  and  dales. 
Soon  in  thine  anguished  ear  the  sound  shall  ring 
Of  the  wild  huntsmen  and  the  baying  hounds  ! 
-  They  know  what  game  they  hunt !  .  .  .  And  now,  behold ! 


The   SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  87 

The  giant  builders  of  the  air  upraise 
Castles  of  cloud,  with  monstrous  walls  and  towers. 
Frowning  and  grim,  they  move  against  thy  heights, 
Eager  to  crush  thy  work,  and  thee,  and  all ! 


HEINRICH. 

Help  !    Help  !    Rautendelein  !    An  alp  !    I  choke ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

She  hears  thee — and  she  comes — but  brings  no  help  ! 
Though  she  were  Freya,  and  though  thou  wert  Balder — 
Though  sun-tipped  shafts  did  fill  thy  radiant  quiver, 
And  ev'ry  shaft  that  thou  shouldst  point  went  home — 
Thou  must  be  vanquished.     Hear  me  ! 

A  sunken  bell  in  the  deep  mere  lies, 

Under  the  rocks  and  the  rolling : 

And  it  longs  to  rise — 

In  the  sunlight  again  to  be  tolling ! 

The  fishes  swim  in,  and  the  fishes  swim  out, 

As  the  old  bell  tosses,  and  rolls  about. 

It  shudders  and  sways  as  they  come  and  go, 

And  weeping  is  heard,  and  the  sound  of  woe. 

A  muffled  moan,  and  a  throb  of  pain, 

Answer  the  swirling  flood — 

For  the  mouth  of  the  bell  is  choked  with  blood  ! 

Woe,  woe,  to  thee,  man,  when  it  tolls  again  ! 

Bim  !  .  .  .  Boom  ! 
The  Lord  save  thee  from  thy  doom  ! 

Bim  !  .  .  .  Boom  ! 
Hark  to  the  knell ! 
Death  is  the  burden  of  that  lost  bell ! 

Bim  !  .  .  .  Boom ! 
The  Lord  save  thee  from  thy  doom  ! 

\The  NICKELMANN  sinks  into  the  well.] 


88  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

HEINRICH. 

Help  !    Help !    A  nightmare  chokes  me  !    Help  !    Help !    Help ! 

{He  awakes."] 
Where  am  I  ?  ...  Am  I  living  ? 

[He  rubs  his  eyes  and  looks  round  him] 
No  one  here? 

RAUTENDELEIN  [entering]. 

I'm  here  !    Did'st  call  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Yes  !    Come  !    Come  here  to  me. 
Lay  thy  dear  hand  upon  my  forehead — so, 
And  let  me  stroke  thy  hair  .  .  .  and  feel  thy  heart. 
Come.     Nearer.     In  thy  train  thou  bring'st  the  scent 
Of  the  fresh  woods  and  rosemary.     Ah,  kiss  me ! 
Kiss  me ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  ails  thee,  dearest  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Nothing,  nothing! 

Give  me  a  coverlet  ...  I  lay  here  chilled  .  .  . 
Too  tired  to  work  .  .  .  My  heart  grew  faint  .  .  .  and  then 
Dark  powers  of  evil  seemed  to  enter  in  ... 
Laid  hold  of  me,  possessed  me,  plagued  me  sore, 
And  tried  to  throttle  me  .  .  .  But  now  I'm  well. 
Have  thou  no  fear,  child.     I'm  myself  again } 
Now  let  them  come  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Who? 

HEINRICH. 

Why,  my  foes. 


The  SUNKEN    BELL   Act  IV.  89 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  foes  ? 

HEINRICH. 

My  nameless  enemies — ay,  one  and  all ! 

I  stand  upon  my  feet,  as  once  I  stood, 

Ready  to  brave  them,  though  they  filled  my  sleep 

With  crawling,  creeping,  cowardly  terrors ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou'rt  fevered,  Heinrich  ! 

HEINRICH. 

Ay,  'tis  chill  to-night. 
No  matter.     Put  thy  arms  around  me.     So. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou,  dearest,  dearest ! 

HEINRICH. 

Tell  me  this,  my  child. 
Dost  trust  in  me  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  Balder !    Hero !    God ! 
I  press  my  lips  against  the  fair  white  brow 
That  overhangs  the  clear  blue  of  thine  eyes. 

[Pause.} 

HEINRICH. 

So— I  am  all  thou  say'st  ?  ...  I  am  thy  Balder  ? 
Make  me  believe  it — make  me  know  it,  child  ! 
Give  my  faint  soul  the  rapturous  joy  it  needs, 
To  nerve  it  to  its  task.     For,  as  the  hand, 
Toiling  with  tong  and  hammer,  on  and  on, 
To  hew  the  marble  and  to  guide  the  chisel, 
Now  bungles  here,  now  there,  yet  may  not  halt, 


90  The  SUNKEN    BELL   Act  IV. 

And  nothing,  small  or  great,  dare  leave  to  chance, 

So  do  we  ofttimes  lose  our  passionate  faith, 

Feel  the  heart  tighten,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim, 

Till,  in  the  daily  round  of  drudging  work, 

The  clear  projection  of  the  soul  doth  vanish. 

For,  to  preserve  that  Heaven-sent  gift  is  hard. 

No  clamp  have  we,  no  chain,  to  hold  it  fast. 

'Tis  as  the  aura  that  surrounds  a  sun, 

Impalpable.     That  lost,  all's  lost. 

Defrauded  now  we  stand,  and  tempted  sore 

To  shirk  the  anguish  that  foreruns  fruition. 

What,  in  conception,  seemed  all  ecstacy, 

Now  turns  to  sorrow.     But — enough  of  this. 

Still  straight  and  steady  doth  the  smoke  ascend 

From  my  poor  human  sacrifice  to  Heaven. 

Should  now  a  Hand  on  high  reject  my  gift, 

Why,  it  may  do  so.     Then  the  priestly  robe 

Falls  from  my  shoulder — by  no  act  of  mine  ; 

While  I,  who  erst  upon  the  heights  was  set, 

Must  look  my  last  on  Horeb,  and  be  dumb  ! 

But  now  bring  torches  !     Lights  !     And  show  thine  art  I 

Enchantress  !    Fill  the  winecup !    We  will  drink ! 

Ay,  like  the  common  herd  of  mortal  men, 

With  resolute  hands  our  fleeting  joy  we'll  grip  ! 

Our  unsought  leisure  we  will  fill  with  life, 

Not  waste  it,  as  the  herd,  in  indolence. 

We  will  have  music  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

O'er  the  hills  I  flew : 

Now,  as  a  cobweb,  on  the  breezes  drifting, 
Now  frolicing  as  a  bee,  or  butterfly, 
And  darting  hungrily  from  flower  to  flower. 
From  each  and  all,  from  every  shrub  and  plant, 
Each  catch-fly,  harebell,  and  forget-me-not, 
I  dragged  the  promise,  and  I  forced  the  oath, 
That  bound  them  never  to  do  harm  to  thee. 
And  so — the  blackest  elf,  most  bitter  foe 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  91 

To  thee,  so  good  and  white,  should  vainly  seek 
To  cut  thy  death-arrow  !  * 

HEINRICH. 

What  is  this  arrow? 

I  know  the  spirit !  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  't !  .  .  .  There  came 
A  spirit  to  me  once,  in  priestly  garb, 
Who,  threat'ning,  raised  his  hand,  the  while  he  raved 
Of  some  such  arrow  that  should  pierce  my  heart. 
Who'll  speed  the  arrow  from  his  bow,  I  say  ? 
Who — who  will  dare  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Why,  no  one,  dearest.     No  one. 
Thou'rt  proof  against  all  ill,  I  say — thou'rt  proof. 
And  now,  blink  but  thine  eye,  or  only  nod, 
And  gentle  strains  shall  upward  float,  as  mist, 
Hem  thee  about,  and,  with  a  wall  of  music, 
Guard  thee  from  call  of  man,  and  toll  of  bell : 
Yea,  mock  at  even  Loki's  mischievous  arts. 
Make  the  most  trifling  gesture  with  thy  hand, 
These  rocks  shall  turn  to  vaulted  palace-halls, 
Earth-men  unnumbered  shall  buzz  round,  and  stand 
Ready  to  deck  the  floor,  the  walls,  the  board  ! 
Yet — since  by  dark,  fierce  foes  we  are  beset, 
Wilt  thou  not  flee  into  the  earth  with  me  ? 
There  we  need  fear  no  icy  giant's  breath — 
There  the  vast  halls  shall  shine  with  dazzling  light 

HEINRICH. 

Peace,  child.     No  more.     What  were  thy  feast  to  me 

So  long  as  solemn,  mute,  and  incomplete, 

My  work  the  hour  awaits,  wherein  its  voice 

Shall  loudly  usher  in  the  Feast  of  Feasts  !  .  .  . 

I'll  have  one  more  good  look  at  the  great  structure. 

So  shall  new  fetters  bind  me  to  it  fast. 

*  It  was  an  old  belief  that  dangerous  arrows  were  shot  down  from  the 
air  by  elves. 


£2  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

Take  thou  a  torch,  and  light  me  on  my  way. 

Haste !    Haste !  .  .  .  Since  now  I  feel  my  nameless  foes 

Busy  at  work  to  do  me  injury — 

Since  now  the  fabric's  menaced  at  the  base — 

Tis  meet  the  Master,  too,  should  toil — not  revel. 

For,  should  success  his  weary  labor  crown, 

The  secret  wonder  stand  at  last  revealed, 

In  gems  and  gold  expressed,  and  ivory, 

Even  to  the  faintest,  feeblest,  of  its  tones — 

His  work  should  live,  triumphant,  through  the  ages  ! 

'Tis  imperfection  that  draws  down  the  curse, 

Which,  could  we  brave  it  here,  we'd  make  a  mock  of. 

Ay,  we  will  make  a  mock  of 't ! 

[He  moves  to  the  door  and  halts,} 
Well,  child  ?  .  .  . 
Why  dost  thou  linger  !  .  .  .    Have  I  grieved  thee  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

No! 
No!    No! 

HEINRICH. 

What  ails  thee  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Nothing ! 

HEINRICH. 

Thou  poor  soul ! 

I  know  what  grieves  thee. — Children,  such  as  thou, 
Run  lightly  after  the  bright  butterflies, 
And  often,  laughing,  kill  what  most  they  love. 
But  I  am  not  a  butterfly.    I  am  more. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

And  I  ?    Am  I  a  child  ?  ...  No  more  than  that  ? 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  93 

HEINRICH. 

Ay,  truly,  thou  art  more  !  .  .  .  That  to  forget 
Were  to  forget  the  brightness  of  my  life. 
The  clew  that  glistened  in  thy  shining  eyes 
Filled  me  with  pain.     And  then  I  pained  thee,  too. 
Come  !     'Twas  my  tongue,  not  I,  that  hurt  thee  so. 
My  heart  of  hearts  knows  naught,  save  only  love. 
Nay — do  not  weep  so.     See — now  I  am  armed  ; 
Thou  hast  equipped  me  for  the  game  anew. 
Lo,  thou  hast  filled  my  empty  hands  with  gold; 
Given  me  courage  for  one  more  last  throw  ! 
Now  I  can  play  with  Heaven  !  .  .  .  Ah,  and  I  feel 
So  blessed,  so  wrapped  in  thy  strange  loveliness — 
Yet,  when  I,  wond'ring,  seek  to  grasp  it  all, 
I  am  baffled.     For  thy  charm's  unsearchable. 
And  then  I  feel  how  near  joy's  kin  to  pain — 
Lead  on  !    And  light  my  path  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [without], 

Holdrio  ! 

Up!     Up!    Bestir  yourselves  !    Plague  o' the  dawdlers! 
The  heathen  temple  must  be  laid  in  ashes ! 
Haste,  reverend  Sir  !    Haste,  Master  Barber,  haste ! 
Here  there  is  straw  and  pitch  a-plenty.     See ! 
The  Master's  cuddling  his  fair  elfin  bride — 
And  while  he  toys  with  her,  naught  else  he  heeds. 

HEINRICH. 

The  deadly  nightshade  must  have  made  him  mad. 
What  art  thou  yelling  in  the  night,  thou  rogue  ? 
Beware ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  [defiantly]. 
Of  thee  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Ay,  fool.    Beware  of  me  ! 
I  know  the  way  to  manage  such  as  thou, 
I'll  grab  thee  by  thy  beard,  thou  misshaped  oaf; 


94  The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act  IV. 

Thou  shalt  be  shorn  and  stripped,  and  when  thou'rt  tamed, 
When  thou  hast  learned  to  know  who's  master  here, 
I'll  make  thee  work  and  slave  for  me  —  thou  goat-shank  ! 
What?  .  .  .  Neighing,  eh?  .  .  .  Dost  see  this  anvil,  beast? 
And,  here,  this  hammer?     It  is  hard  enough 
To  beat  thee  to  a  jelly. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

[  Turning  his  back  on  HEINRICH  insolently^ 

Bah  !     Hammer  away  ! 
Many  and  many  a  zealot's  flashing  sword 
Has  tickled  me,  ere  it  was  turned  to  splinters. 
The  iron  on  thy  anvil's  naught  but  clay, 
And,  like  a  cow's  dug,  at  the  touch  it  bursts. 

HEINRICH. 

We'll  see,  thou  windbag,  thou  hobgoblin  damned! 
Wert  thou  as  ancient  as  the  Wester  wood, 
Or  did  thy  power  but  match  thy  braggart  tongue  — 
I'll  have  thee  chained,  and  make  thee  fetch  and  carry, 
Sweep,  drudge,  draw  water,  roll  huge  stones  and  rocks, 
And  shouldst  thou  loiter,  beast,  I'll  have  thee  flayed! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 
Heinrich!    He  warns  thee! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Ay!    Go  to!    Go  to! 

'Twill  be  a  mad  game  when  they  drag  thee  hence 
And  roast  thee,  like  an  ox!    And  I'll  be  by! 
But  now  to  find  the  brimstone,  oil,  and  pitch, 
Wherewith  to  make  a  bonfire  that  shall  smoke 
Till  daylight  shall  be  blotted  out  in  darkness. 


[  Cries  and  murmurs  of  many  voices  heard  from 
without.'} 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  9$ 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  them,  Heinrich  ?     Men  are  coming  ! 
Hark  to  their  boding  cries  !  .  .  .  They  are  for  thee  ! 

[A  stone  flung  from  without  strikes  RAUTENDELEIN.] 
Help,  grandmother ! 

HEINRICH. 

So  that  is  what  was  meant  ! 
I  dreamt  a  pack  of  hounds  did  hunt  me  down. 
The  hounds  I  hear.     The  hunt  has  not  begun  ! 
Their  yelping,  truly,  could  not  come  more  pat. 
For,  though  an  angel  had  hung  down  from  Heaven, 
All  lily-laden,  and,  with  gentle  sighs, 
Entreated  me  to  steadfastness, 
He  had  convinced  me  less  than  those  fierce  cries 
Of  the  great  weight  and  purport  of  my  mission. 
Come  one,  come  all !     What's  yours  I  guard  for  you  ! 
I'll  shield  you  from  your  selves  !  .  .  .  That  be  my  watchword  ! 

\Exit  with  hammer] 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

[Alone and  in  excitement. ,] 
Help,  help,  Bush-Grandmother  !     Help,  Nickelmann  ! 

[  The  NICKELMANN  rises  from  the  well] 
Ah,  my  dear  Nickelmann,  I  beg  of  you — 
Bid  water,  quick,  come  streaming  from  the  rocks, 
Wave  upon  wave,  and  drive  them  all  away  ! 
Do!    Do! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Brekekekex  !    What  shall  I  do  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Let  thy  wild  waters  sweep  them  to  the  abyss  ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 
I  cannot, 


96  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

But  thou  canst,  good  Nickelmann  ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

And  if  I  should— what  good  were  that  to  me? 

I  have  no  cause  to  wish  well  to  the  Master. 

He'd  love  to  lord  it  over  God  and  men. 

'Twould  suit  me  if  the  fools  should  strike  him  down  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Oh,  help  him — help  !    Or  it  will  be  too  late  ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

What  wilt  thou  give  me,  dear  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I  give  thee  ? 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Yes. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Ah,  what  thou  wilt ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Oho !    Brekekekex ! 

Then  strip  thy  pretty  gown  from  thy  brown  limbs, 
Take  off  thy  crimson  shoon,  thy  dainty  cap. 
Be  what  thou  art  !     Come  down  into  my  well — 
I'll  spirit  thee  a  thousand  leagues  away. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Forsooth  !     How  artfully  he'd  made  his  plans  ! 

But  now  I  tell  thee  once,  and  once  for  all  ; 

Thou'dst  better  clear  thy  pate  of  all  thy  schemes. 

For,  shouklst  thou  live  to  thrice  thy  hoary  age — 

Shouldst  thou  grow  old  as  Granny — shouldst  thou  forever 

Prison  me  close  in  thine  own  oyster  shells, 

I  would  not  look  at  thee  ! 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  9; 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Then  ...  he  must  die. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thou  liest !  ...  I'm  sure  of  't.     Thou  liest !    Hark  ! 
Ah,  well  thou  knowest  his  clear-sounding  voice  ! 
Dost  think  I  do  not  see  thee  shrink  in  fear? 

[The NICKELMANN  disappears  in  the  well.} 
[Enter  HEINRICH  in  triumph,  and  flushed  with  the  excite- 
ment of  the  strife.     He  laughs.} 

HEINRICH. 

They  came  at  me  like  hounds,  and,  even  as  hounds, 
I  drove  them  from  me  with  the  flaming  brands ! 
Great  boulders  then  I  rolled  upon  their  heads  : 
Some  perished — others  fled  !    Come — give  me  drink  ! 
War  cools  the  breast — 'tis  steeled  by  victory. 
The  warm  blood  rushes  through  my  veins.    Once  more 
My  pulse  throbs  joyously.    War  does  not  tire. 
War  gives  a  man  the  strength  of  twenty  men, 
And  hate  and  love  makes  new! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Here,  Heinrich.    Drink ! 

HEINRICH. 

Yes,  give  it  me,  my  child.    I  am  athirst 

For  wine,  and  light,  and  love,  and  joy,  and  thee ! 

[He  drinks.\ 

I  drink  to  thee,  thou  airy^elfin  sprite  ! 
And,  with  this  drink,  again  I  thee  do  wed. 
Without  thee,  my  invention  would  be  clogged, 
I  were  a  prey  to  gloom — world-weariness. 
My  child,  I  entreat  thee,  do  not  fail  me  now. 
Thou  art  the  very  pinion  of  my  soul. 
Fail  not  my  soul ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Ah,  do  not  thou  fail  me! 


98  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

HEINRICH. 

That  God  forbid  !  .  .  .  Ho  !    Music  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Hither  !     Hither  ! 

Come  hither,  little  people  !    Elves  and  gnomes  ! 
Come  !    Help  us  to  make  merry  !     Leave  your  homes  ! 
Tune  all  your  tiny  pipes,  and  harps,  and  flutes, 

[Faint  elfin  music  heard  "without.} 
And  watch  me  dance  responsive  to  your  lutes  ! 
With  glowworms,  gleaming  emerald,  lo,  I  deck 
My  waving  tresses  and  my  dainty  neck. 
So  jeweled,  and  adorned  with  fairy  light, 
I'll  make  e'en  Freya's  necklace  seem  less  bright! 

HEINRICH  [interrupting}. 
Be  still !  .  .  .  Methought  .  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What? 

HEINRICH. 

Didst  not  hear  it  then  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Hear  what  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Why — nothing. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Dearest,  what  is  wrong  ? 

HEINRICH. 

I  know  not  .  .  .  But,  commingling  with  thy  music  .  .  . 
Methought  I  heard  ...  a  strain  ...  a  sound  .  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  sound  ? 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  99 

HEINRICH. 

A  plaint  ...  a  tone  ...  a  long,  long,  buried  tone  .  .  . 
No  matter.     It  was  nothing  !  Sit  thou  here! 
Give  me  thy  rose-red  lips.     From  this  fair  cup 
I'll  drink  forgetfulness ! 

{They  kiss.      Long  and  ecstatic  pause.       Then  HEINRICH 

and   RAUTENDELEIN  move,  locked  in  each  other's 

arms,  through  the  doorway.] 

See  !     Deep  and  cool  and  monstrous  yawns  the  gulf 
That  parts  us  from  the  world  where  mortals  dwell. 
I  am  a  man.     Canst  understand  me,  child  ?  .  .  . 
Yonder  I  am  at  home  .  .  .  and  yet  a  stranger — 
Here  I  am  strange  .  .  .  and  yet  I  seem  at  home. 
Canst  understand  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Yes! 

HEINRICH. 

Yet  thou  eyest  me 
So  wildly.    Why  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I'm  filled  with  dread— with  horror! 

HEINRICH. 

With  dread  ?    Of  what  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Of  what  ?    I  cannot  tell. 

HEINRICH. 

'Tis  nothing.     Let  us  rest. 

[HEINRICH  leads  RAUTENDELEIN  towards  the  doorway 
in  the  rocks,  L.  He  stops  suddenly,  and  turns  towards 
the  open  country.] 

Yet  may  the  moon, 

That  hangs  so  chalky-white  in  yonder  heavens, 
Not  shed  the  still  light  of  her  staring  eyes 


ioo  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

On  what's  below  .  .  .  may  she  not  flood  with  brightness 

The  valley  whence  I  rose  to  these  lone  heights ! 

For  what  lies  hid  beneath  that  pall  of  grey 

I  dare  not  gaze  on  !  ...  Hark  !   Child  !    Didst  hear  nothing  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Nothing  !  And  what  thou  saidst  was  dark  to  me  ! 

HEINRICH. 

What !    Dost  thou  still  not  hear  't  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  should  I  hear  ?— 

The  night  wind  playing  on  the  heath,  I  hear — 
I  hear  the  cawing  of  the  carrion-kite — 
I  hear  thee,  strangely  uttering  strange,  wild,  words, 
In  tones  that  seem  as  though  they  were  not  thine  ! 

HEINRICH. 

There  !    There  !     Below  .  .  .  where  shines  the  wicked  moon, 
Look  !    Yonder  ! — Where  the  light  gleams  on  the  waters  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Nothing  I  see !    Nothing  ! 

HEINRICH. 

With  thy  gerfalcon  eyes 

Thou  seest  naught  ?     Art  blind  ?    What  drags  its  way 
Slowly  and  painfully  along  .  .  .  There  .  .  .  See ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Thy  fancy  cheats  thee ! 

HEINRICH. 

No  !  ...  It  was  no  cheat, 

As  God  shall  pardon  me  I  ...  Peace!    Peace  !    I  sayl 
Now  it  climbs  over  the  great  boulder,  yonder- 
Down  by  the  footpath  .  .  . 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV.  101 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Heinrich  !     Do  not  look! 
I'll  close  the  doors  and  rescue  thee  by  force ! 

HEINRICH. 

No !    Let  me  be  !  ...  I  must  look  down !    I  will ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

See — how  the  fleecy  clouds  whirl  round  and  round, 
As  in  a  giant  cauldron,  'mid  the  rocks  ! 
Weak  as  thou  art,  beware  !    Go  not  too  near ! 

HEINRICH. 

I  am  not  weak !   .   .     'Twas  fancy.     Now  'tis  gone ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

That's  well !    Now  be  once  more  our  Lord  and  Master  ! 

Shall  wretched  visions  so  undo  thy  strength  ? 

No  1     Take  thy  hammer  !     Swing  it  wide  and  high  !  .  .  . 

HEINRICH. 

Dost  thou  not  see  them,  where  they  climb  and  climb  ?  .  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Where  ? 

HEINRICH. 

There  !  .  .  .  Now  they  have  reached  the  rocky  path  .  . . 
Clad  only  in  their  little  shirts  they  come  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Who  come  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Two  little  lads,  with  bare,  white  feet. 
They  hold  an  urn  between  them  .  .  .  'Tis  so  heavy ! 
Now  one,  and  now  the  other,  bends  his  knee  .  .  . 
His  little,  baby  knee,  to  raise  it  up  ... 


102  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

O,  help  him,  mother — help  him  in  his  need ! 

HEINRICH. 

A  halo  shines  about  their  tiny  heads  .  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 
Some  will-o'-the-wisp ! 

HEINRICH. 

No  !  .  .  .  Kneel,  and  clasp  thy  hands  ! 

Now  .  .  .  see  .  .  .  they  are  coming.     Now  .   .  .  they  are  here  ! 
[He  kneels,  as  the  phantom  forms  of  two  CHILDREN,  bare- 
footed and  clad  only  in  their  nightgowns,  ascend  from 
below  and  advance  painfully  towards  him.     Between 
them  they  carry  a  two-handled  pitcher] 

FIRST  CHILD  {faintly}. 
Father ! 

HEINRICH. 

My  child ! 

FIRST  CHILD. 

Our  mother  sends  thee  greeting. 

HEINRICH. 

Thanks,  thanks,  my  dear,  dear  lad  !    All's  well  with  her  ? 

FIRST  CHILD  {slowly  and  sadly}. 
All's  very  well !  .  .  . 

{The  first  faint  tones  of  the  sunken  bell  are  heard  from  the 
depths] 

HEINRICH. 

What  have  you  brought  with  you  ? 

SECOND  CHILD. 
A  pitcher. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 
HEINRICH. 

Is't  for  me  f 

SECOND  CHILD, 

Yes,  father  dear. 

HEINRICH. 

What  is  there  in  the  pitcher,  my  dear  boy  ? 

SECOND  CHILD. 

Tis  something  salt !  .  .  . 

FIRST  CHILD. 

.  .  .  And  bitter  ! 

SECOND  CHILD. 

Mother's  tears  I 

HEINRICH. 

Merciful  God ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  art  thou  staring  at  ? 

HEINRICH. 

At  them  ...  at  them  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

At  whom  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Hast  thou  not  eyes  ? 


103 


At  them ! 


Our  mother  ? 


{To  the  CHILDREN.] 
Where  is  your  mother  ?    Speak,  oh,  speak  ! 

FIRST  CHILD. 
HEINRICH. 

Yes  !    Where  is  she  ! 


104  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act  IV. 

SECOND  CHILD. 

With  ...  the  ...  lilies  .  .  . 
The  water-lilies  .  .  . 

[The  Ml  tolls  loudly.] 

HEINRICH. 

Ah!    The  bell! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

What  bell? 

HEINRICH. 

The  old,  old,  buried  bell !  ...  It  rings  !  It  tolls  ! 
Who  dealt  this  blow  at  me  ?  ...  I  will  not  listen  ! 
Help !  Help  me !  ...  Help  !  .  .  . 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Come  to  your  senses,  Heinrich  ! 

HEINRICH. 

It  tolls  !  .  .  .  God  help  me  !  ...  Who  has  dealt  this  blow  ? 
Hark,  how  it  peals  !     Hark,  how  the  buried  tones 
Swell  louder,  louder,  till  they  sound  as  thunder, 
Flooding  the  world !  .  .  . 

[Turning  to  RAUTENDELEIN.] 
I  hate  thee !    I  abhor  thee  ! 

Back  !    Lest  I  strike  thee  !    Hence  !    Thou  witch  !    Thou  trull  1 
Accursed  spirit !    Curst  be  thou  and  I ! 

Curst  be  my  work  !  .  .     And  all !  .  .  .  Here  !    Here  am  I !  ... 
I  come  !  .  .  .  I  come!  .  .  .  Now  may  God  pity  me  !  ... 

[He  makes  an  effort,  rises,  stumbles,  rises  again,  and  tears 
himself  away.] 

[The  CHILDREN  have  vanished.] 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Stay !  Heinrich !  Stay  !  .  .  .  Woe's  me  !  Lost !  .  .  .  Lost  for  aye ! 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  FIVE. 

The  fir-clad  glade  seen  in  Act  One. 
TIME  :  Between  midnight  and  dawn. 
DISCOVERED  :   Three  ELVES,  resting  near  the  well. 

FIRST  ELF. 

The  flame  glows  bright ! 

SECOND  ELF. 

The  wind  of  sacrifice — 
The  red,  red  wind — blows  in  the  vale ! 

THIRD  ELF. 

And  lo, 

The  dark  smoke  from  the  pine-clad  peak  streams  down 
Into  the  gulf ! 

FIRST  ELF. 

And,  in  the  gulf,  white  clouds 
Lie  thickly  gathered  !     From  the  misty  sea 
The  wond'ring  herds  lift  up  their  drowsy  heads, 
Lowing,  impatient,  for  their  sheltered  stalls  ! 

SECOND  ELF. 

A  nightingale  within  the  beechwood  sang : 
It  sang  and  sobbed  into  the  waning  night — 
Till,  all  a-quiver  with  responsive  woe, 
I  sank  upon  the  dewy  grass  and  wept. 

THIRD  ELF. 

'Tis  strange  !     I  lay  upon  a  spider's  web. 
Between  the  blades  of  meadow-grass  it  hung, 
All  woven  out  of  marvelous  purple  threads, 

105 


io6  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V. 

And  softer  than  a  royal  shift  it  clung. 

I  lay,  and  rested,  while  the  glistening  dew 

Flashed  up  at  me  from  the  green  mead  below  : 

And  so,  my  heavy  lids  did  gently  droop, 

Until  at  last  I  slept.     When  I  awoke, 

The  light  had  faded  in  the  distant  west : 

My  bed  had  turned  to  grey.     But,  in  the  east, 

Thick  clouds  went  up,  and  up,  that  hid  the  moon, 

While  all  the  rocky  ridge  was  covered  o'er 

With  molten  metal,  glowing  in  the  night. 

And,  in  the  bloody  glare  that  downward  streamed, 

Methought — 'twas  strange — the  fields  did  stir  with  life, 

And  whisp'rings,  sighs,  and  voices  low  I  heard 

That  filled  the  very  air  with  wretchedness. 

Ah,  it  was  pitiful !  .  .  .  Then,  quick,  I  hailed 

A  fire-fly,  who  his  soft,  green  lamp  had  trimmed. 

But  on  he  flew.     And  so  alone  I  lay, 

Trembling  with  fear,  and  lost  in  wonderment. 

Till,  winged  and  gleaming  as  the  dragon-fly, 

The  dearest,  loveliest,  of  all  the  elves, 

Who  from  afar  his  coming  had  proclaimed, 

Rustled  and  fell  into  my  waiting  arms. 

And,  as  we  prattled  in  our  cosy  bed, 

Warm  tears  were  mingled  with  our  kisses  sweet, 

And  then  he  sighed,  and  sobbed,  and  pressed  me  tight, 

Mourning  for  Balder  .  .  .  Balder,  who  was  dead  ! 

FIRST  ELF  [rising]. 
The  flame  glows  bright ! 

SECOND  ELF  [rising]. 

'Tis  Balder's  funeral  pyre  ! 

THIRD  ELF. 

[  Who  meanwhile  has  moved  slowly  to  the  edge  of  the 

wood.] 
Balder  is  dead!  .  .  .  I'm  chill !  [She  vanishes.] 


The   SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V.  107 

FIRST  ELF. 

A  curse  doth  fall 
Upon  the  land — as  Balder's  funeral  pall ! 

\Fog  drifts  across  the  glade.     When  it  clears  away  the 

ELVES  have  vanished^ 

[Enter  RAUTENDELEIN,  slowly  and  wearily  descending  from 
the  hillside.  She  drags  herself  towards  the  -well,  halting  to 
rest,  sitting  and  rising  again  with  an  effort,  on  her  way. 
When  she  speaks,  her  voice  is  faint  and  strange^ 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Whither  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  whither  ?  ...  I  sat  till  late, 
While  the  gnomes  ran  wild  in  my  hall  of  state. 
They  brought  me  a  red,  red  cup  to  drain — 
And  I  drank  it  down,  in  pain. 

For  the  wine  I  drank  was  blood  ! 

And,  when  I  had  drained  the  last  red  drop, 
My  heart  in  my  bosom  seemed  to  stop  : 
For  a  hand  of  iron  had  gripped  the  strings — 
And  still  with  a  burning  pain  it  wrings 
The  heart  that  I  long  to  cool ! 

Then  a  crown  on  my  wedding-board  they  laid — 
All  of  rose-red  coral  and  silver  made. 
As  I  set  it  upon  my  brow  I  sighed. 
Woe's  me  !     Now  the  Water-man's  won  his  bride ! 
And  I'll  cool  my  burning  heart ! 

Three  apples  fell  into  my  lap  last  night, 
Rose-red,  and  gold,  and  white — 
Wedding-gifts  from  my  water-sprite. 
I  ate  the  white  apple,  and  white  I  grew : 
I  ate  the  gold  apple,  and  rich  I  grew — 
And  the  red  one  last  I  ate  ! 

Pale,  white,  and  rosy-red, 

A  maiden  sat — and  she  was  dead. 


108  The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act    V. 

Now,  Water-man,  unbar  thy  gate — 
I  bring  thee  home  thy  dead,  dead,  mate. 
Deep  down  in  the  cold,  damp,  darkness,  see — 
With  the  silver  fishes  I  come  to  thee  .  .  . 
Ah,  my  poor,  burnt,  aching,  heart ! 

[She  descends  slowly  into  the  well.] 

[THE  WOOD-SPRITE  enters  from  the  wood,  crosses  to  the 
well,  and  calls  down.\ 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Hey  !    Holdrio  !    Old  frog-king !    Up  with  thee  ! 
Hey !    Holdrio !    Thou  web-foot  wight  bewitched  ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  me,  monster  ?    Art  asleep  ? 
I  say,  come  up ! — and  though  beside  thee  lay 
Thy  fairest  water-maid,  and  plucked  thy  beard, 
I'd  still  say,  leave  thy  reedy  bed  and  come  ! 
Thou'lt  not  repent  it :  for,  by  cock  and  pie, 
What  I've  to  tell  thee  is  worth  many  a  night 
Spent  in  the  arms  of  thy  most  lovesick  sprite. 

THE  NICKELMANN  [from  below], 
Brekekekex ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Up  !    Leave  thy  weedy  pool ! 

THE  NICKELMANN  [from  below] 

I  have  no  time.     Begone,  thou  chattering  fool ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

What  ?    What  ?    Thou  toad-i'-the-hole,  thou  hast  no  time 

To  spare  from  wallowing  in  thy  mud  and  slime  ? 

I  say,  I  bring  thee  news.     Didst  thou  not  hear? 

What  I  foretold's  come  true.     I  played  the  seer ! 

He's  left  her  !  .  .  .  Now,  an  thou  wilt  but  be  spry, 

Thou'lt  haply  catch  thy  wondrous  butterfly  ! 

A  trifle  jaded — ay,  and  something  worn  : 

But,  Lord,  what  care  the  Nickelmann  and  Faun  ? 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V.  109 

Rare  sport  thou'lt  find  her,  comrade,  even  now — 
Ay,  more  than  thou  hadst  bargained  for,  I'll  vow. 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

[Rising  from  the  well  and  blinking  slyly.~\ 
Forsooth  !  .  .  .  He's  tired  of  her,  the  minx  !    And  so 
Thou'dst  have  me  hang  upon  her  skirts  ?  .  .  .    No,  no  ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

What  ?  .  .  .  Hast  thou  wearied  of  this  beauty,  too  ? 
Why,  then — I  would  her  whereabouts  I  knew  ! 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 
Go  hunt  for  her ! 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

I've  sought  her,  like  a  dog : 
Above — below,  through  mirk,  and  mist,  and  fog. 
I've  climbed  where  never  mountain-goat  had  been, 
And  every  marmot  far  and  near  I've  seen. 
Each  falcon,  glede,  and  finch,  and  rat,  and  snake, 
I've  asked  for  news.     But  none  could  answer  make. 
Woodmen  I  passed — around  a  fire  they  slept — 
From  them  I  stole  a  brand,  and  upward  crept : 
Till,  grasping  in  my  hand  the  burning  wood, 
At  last  before  the  lonely  forge  I  stood. 
And  now  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ascends ! 
Loud  roar  the  flames — each  rafter  cracks  and  bends  ! 
The  power  the  Master  boasted  once  is  fled  : 
For  ever  and  for  aye,  'tis  past  and  dead  1 

THE  NlCKELMANN. 

I  know.     I  know.     Thy  news  is  old  and  stale. 
Hast  thou  disturbed  me  with  this  idle  tale  ? 
Much  more  I'd  tell  thee — ay,  who  tolled  the  bell ! 
And  how  the  clapper  swung  that  rang  the  knell ! 
Hadst  thou  but  seen,  last  night,  as  I  did  see, 
What  ne'er  before  had  been,  nor  more  shall  be, 


i  io  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V. 

The  hand  of  a  dead  woman,  stark  and  cold, 
Go  groping  for  the  bell  that  tossed  and  rolled. 
And  hadst  thou  heard  the  bell  then  make  reply, 
Peal  upon  peal  send  thundering  to  the  sky — 
Till,  like  the  lioness  that  seeks  her  mate, 
It  thrilled  the  Master,  even  as  the  Voice  of  Fate  ! 
I  saw  the  woman — drowned.     Her  long,  brown  hair 
Floated  about  her  face  :  'twas  wan  with  care. 
And  alway,  when  her  hand  the  bell  had  found, 
The  awful  knell  did  loud,  and  louder,  sound! 
I'm  old,  and  used  to  many  a  gruesome  sight : 
Yet  horror  seized  me,  and — I  took  to  flight  ! 
Hadst  thou  but  seen,  last  night,  what  I  have  seen, 
Thou  wouldst  not  fret  about  thine  elfin  quean. 
So,  let  her  flit  at  will,  from  flower  to  flower: 
I  care  not,  I !     Her  charm  has  lost  its  power. 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE. 

Ods  bodikins !    I  care,  though,  for  the  maid. 
So — each  to  his  own  taste.     I  want  the  jade. 
And  once  I  hold  her  panting  in  these  arms, 
'Tis  little  I  shall  reck  of  dead  alarms  ! 

THE   NlCKELMANN. 
Quorax  !    Brekekekex  !    Oho  !     I  see. 
So  that  is  still  the  flea  that's  biting  thee  ? 
Well — kill  it,  then.     Go  hunt  her  till  thou'rt  spent. 
Yet,  though  a-hunting  twice  ten  years  thou  went, 
Thou  shouldst  not  have  her.     'Tis  for  me  she  sighs  ! 
She  has  no  liking  for  thy  goaty  eyes. 
A  hen-pecked  Water-man,  alack,  I'm  tied 
By  every  whim  and  humor  of  my  bride. 
Now  fare  thee  well.    Thou'rt  free,  to  come,  or  go : 
But,  as  for  me — 'tis  time  I  went  below  ! 

[He  disappears  in 

THE  WOOD-SPRITE  \calling  down  the  well} 

So  sure  as  all  the  stars  in  heaven  do  shine — 

So  sure  as  these  stout  shanks  and  horns  are  mine — 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    VJ  in 

So  sure  as  fishes  swim  and  birds  do  fly — 

A  man-child  in  thy  cradle  soon  shall  lie  ! 

Good-night.     Sleep  well !     And  now,  be  off  to  bed  ! 

On  !    On !    Through  brush  and  brier  !  .  .  .  The  flea  is  dead  ! 

[THE  WOOD-SPRITE  skips  off".} 

[OLD  WITTIKIN  issues  from  the  hut  and  takes  down  her 
shutters^ 

WITTIKIN. 

Twas  time  I  rose.     I  sniff  the  morning  air. 
A  pretty  hurly  there  has  been  to-night. 

\A  cock  crows.} 

Oho  !    I  thought  so.     Kikereekikee  ! 
No  need  to  give  thyself  such  pains  for  me — 
Thou  noisy  rogue — as  if  we  did  not  know 
What's  coming,  ere  such  cocks  as  thou  did  crow. 
Thy  hen  another  golden  egg  has  laid  ? 
And  soon  the  sun  shall  warm  the  mirky  glade  ? 
Ay.     Crow  thy  loudest,  gossip  !     Sing  and  sing  ! 
The  dawn  draws  near.     So  strut  thy  fill  and  sing. 
Another  day's  at  hand.     But — here  'tis  dark  .  .  . 
Will  no  mad  jack-o'-lantern  give  me  a  spark  ?  .  .  . 
I'll  need  more  light  to  do  my  work,  I  wis  .  .  . 
And,  as  I  live,  my  carbuncle  I  miss. 

[She  fumbles  in  her  pocket  and  produces  a  carbuncle^ 
Ah,  here  it  is. 

HEINRICH  {heard  without}. 
Rautendelein ! 

WITTIKIN. 

Ay,  call  her  ! 
She'll  answer  thee,  I  wager,  thou  poor  brawler  ! 

HEINRICH  [without]. 
Rautendelein  !    I  come.    Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 


112  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V. 

WlTTIKIN. 

Thou'lt  need  to  call  her  louder,  man,  I  fear. 

[HEINRICH,  worn  and  weary,  appears  on  the  rocks  above 
the  hut.  He  is  pale  and  in  tatters.  In  his  right  hand 
he  holds  a  heavy  stone,  ready  to  hurl  it  back  into  the 
depths^ 

HEINRICH. 

Come,  if  you  dare  !    Be  it  priest,  or  be  it  barber, 
Sexton,  or  schoolmaster — I  care  not  who  ! 
The  first  who  dares  another  step  to  take, 
Shall  fall  and  headlong  plunge  into  the  gulf  ! 
'Twas  ye  who  drove  my  wife  to  death,  not  I ! 
Vile  rabble,  witless  wretches,  beggars,  rogues — 
Who  weeks  together  mumble  idle  prayers 
For  a  lost  penny  !    Yet,  so  base  are  ye, 
That,  where  ye  can,  God's  everlasting  love 
Ye  cheat  of  ducats  !  .  .  .  Liars  !    Hypocrites  ! 
Like  rocks  ye  are  heaped  about  your  nether-land, 
Ringing  it  round,  as  with  a  dam  of  stone, 
Lest  haply  God's  own  waters,  rushing  in, 
Should  flood  your  arid  Hell  with  Paradise. 
When  shall  the  great  destroyer  wreck  your  dam  ? 
I  am  not  he  ...  Alas  !    I  am  not  the  man  ! 

\He  drops  the  stone  and  begins  to  ascend.} 

WlTTIKIN. 
That  way  is  barred.    So  halt !    And  climb  no  more. 

HEINRICH. 

Woman,  what  burns  up  yonder  ? 

WlTTIKIN. 

Nay,  I  know  not. 

Some  man  there  was,  I've  heard,  who  built  a  thing, 
Half  church,  half  royal  castle.     Now — he's  gone  ! 
And,  since  he's  left  it,  up  it  goes  in  flame. 

[HEINRICH  makes  a  feeble  effort  to  press  upward.} 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act   V.  113 

Did  I  not  tell  thee,  man,  the  road  was  barred  ? 
He  who  would  pass  that  way  had  need  o'  wings. 
And  thy  wings  have  been  broken. 

HEINRICH. 

Ah,  broken  or  no, 

I  tell  thee,  woman,  I  must  reach  the  peak ! 
What  flames  up  yonder  is  my  work — all  mine  ! 
Dost  understand  me  ?  .  .  .  I  am  he  who  built  it. 
And  all  I  was,  and  all  I  grew  to  be, 
Was  spent  on  it  ...     I  can  ...  I  can  ...  no  more  ! 

WlTTlKIN. 

[Pause.] 

Halt  here  a  while.    The  roads  are  still  pitch-dark. 
There  is  a  bench.    Sit  down  and  rest. 

HEINRICH. 

I  ?  .  .  .  Rest  ?  .  .  . 

Though  thou  shouldst  bid  me  sleep  on  silk  and  down, 
That  heap  of  ruins  still  would  draw  me  on. 
The  kiss  my  mother — long  she's  joined  the  dust — 
Did  press  years  since  upon  my  fevered  brow, 
Would  bring  no  blessing  to  me  now,  no  peace  : 
'Twould  sting  me  like  a  wasp. 

WlTTIKIN. 

Ay,  so  it  would  ! 

Wait  here  a  bit,  man.     I  will  bring  thee  wine. 
I've  still  a  sup  or  two. 

HEINRICH. 

I  must  not  wait. 
Water !    I  thirst !    I  thirst ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

Go,  draw,  and  drink  ! 

[HEINRICH  moves  to  the  well,  draws,  sits  on  the  edge  of 
the  well,  and  drinks.  A  faint,  sweet  voice  is  heard 
from  below,  singing  mournfully^ 


114  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V. 

THE  VOICE  [from 


Heinrich,  my  sweetheart,  I  loved  thee  true. 
Now  thou  art  come  to  my  well  to  woo. 
Wilt  thou  not  go  ? 
Love  is  all  woe  — 
Adieu  !    Adieu  ! 

HEINRICH. 

Woman,  what  voice  was  that  ?    Speak—  answer  me  t 

What  called  and  sang  to  me  in  such  sad  tones  ? 

It  murmured,  "  Heinrich  !  "  .  .  .  from  the  depths  it  came 

And  then  it  softly  sighed,  "Adieu  !    Adieu  !  " 

Who  art  thou,  woman  ?     And  what  place  is  this? 

Am  I  awaking  from  some  dream  ?  .  .  .  These  rocks, 

Thy  hut,  thyself,  I  seem  to  know  ye  all  ! 

Yet  all  are  strange.     Can  that  which  me  befell 

Have  no  more  substance  than  a  peal  that  sounds, 

And,  having  sounded,  dies  away  in  silence  ? 

Woman,  who  art  thou  ? 

WlTTIKIN. 
I  ?  .  .  .  And  who  art  thou  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Dost  ask  me  that  ?  .  .  .  Yes  !    Who  am  I  ?     God  wot  ! 

How  often  have  I  prayed  to  Heaven  to  tell  me  !  .  .  . 

Who  am  I,  God  !  .  .  .  But  Heaven  itself  is  mute. 

Yet  this  I  do  know  :  whatsoe'er  I  be, 

Hero  or  weakling,  demi-god  or  beast  — 

I  am  the  outcast  child  of  the  bright  Sun  — 

That  longs  for  home  :  all  helpless  now,  and  maimed, 

A  bundle  of  sorrow,  weeping  for  the  Light 

That  stretches  out  its  radiant  arms  in  vain, 

And  yearns  for  me  !  ...  What  dost  thou  there  ? 

WlTTIKIN. 
Thou'lt  learn  that  soon  enough. 


The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    V.  115 

HEINRICH  [rising]. 

Nay,  I'll  begone ! 

Now,  with  thy  bloody  lamplight,  show  me  a  way 
Will  lead  me  onward,  upward,  to  the  heights  ! 
Once  I  am  there,  where  erst  I  Master  stood. 
Lonely  I'll  live — thenceforth  a  hermit  be — 
Who  neither  rules,  nor  serves. 

WlTTIKIN. 

I  doubt  it  much  ! 
What  thou  would'st  seek  up  yonder  is  not  that. 

HEINRICH. 

How  canst  thou  know  ? 

WlTTIKIN. 

We  know  what  we  do  know. 

They'd  almost  run  thee  down,  my  friend  ?  .  .  .  Ay,  ay! 
When  life  shines  bright,  like  wolves  ye  men  do  act, 
Rend  it  and  torture  it.     But,  when  death  comes, 
No  bolder  are  ye  than  a  flock  of  sheep, 
That  trembles  at  the  wolf.     Ay,  ay,  'tis  true  ! 
The  herds  that  lead  ye  are  but  sorry  carles 
Who  with  the  hounds  do  hunt  and  loudly  yelp  : 
They  do  not  set  their  hounds  to  hunt  the  wolf  : 
Nay,  nay :  their  sheep  they  drive  into  its  jaws  !  .  .  . 
Thou'rt  not  much  better  than  the  other  herds. 
Thy  bright  life  thou  has  torn  and  spurned  away. 
And  when  death  fronted  thee,  thou  wast  not  bold. 

HEINRICH. 

Ah,  woman,  list !  .  .  .  I  know  not  how  it  came 

That  I  did  spurn  and  kill  my  clear  bright  life : 

And,  being  a  Master,  did  my  task  forsake, 

Like  a  mere  'prentice,  quaking  at  the  sound 

Of  my  own  handiwork,  the  bell  which  I 

Had  blessed  with  speech.     And  yet  'tis  true  !     Its  voice 

Rang  out  so  loud  from  its  great  iron  throat, 


ii6  The  SUNKEN   BELL  Act    Fl 

Waking  the  echoes  of  the  topmost  peaks, 

That,  as  the  threatening  peal  did  rise  and  swell, 

It  shook  my  soul !  .  .  .  Yet  I  was  still  the  Master  J 

Ere  it  had  shattered  me  who  moulded  it, 

With  this  same  hand,  that  gave  it  form  and  life, 

I  should  have  crushed  and  ground  it  into  atoms. 

WlTTIKIN. 

What's  past,  is  past :  what's  done,  is  done,  for  aye. 

Thou'lt  never  win  up  to  thy  heights,  I  trow. 

This  much  I'll  grant :  thou  wast  a  sturdy  shoot, 

And  mighty — yet  too  weak.    Though  thou  wast  called, 

Thou'st  not  been  chosen  !  .  .  .  Come.    Sit  down  beside  me. 

HEINRICH. 

Woman !    Farewell ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

Come  here,  and  sit  thee  down. 
Strong — yet  not  strong  enow  I 
Who  lives,  shall  life  pursue.     But  be  thou  sure, 
Up  yonder  thou  shalt  find  it  nevermore. 

HEINRICH. 

Then  let  me  perish  here,  where  now  I  stand ! 

WlTTIKIN. 

Ay,  so  thou  shalt.     He  who  has  flown  so  high, 
Into  the  very  Light,  as  thou  hast  flown, 
Must  perish,  if  he  once  fall  back  to  Earth ! 

HEINRICH. 

I  know  it.     I  have  reached  my  journey's  end. 
So  be  it 

WlTTIKIN. 
Yes  I    Thou  hast  reached  the  end ! 


The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act    V.  117 

HEINRICH. 

Then  tell  me— 

Thou  who  dost  seem  to  me  so  strangely  wise — 
Am  I  to  die  and  never  more  set  eyes 
On  what,  with  bleeding  feet,  I  still  must  seek? 
Thou  dost  not  answer  me  ?  .  .  .  Must  I  go  hence — 
Leave  my  deep  night,  and  pass  to  deepest  darkness — 
Missing  the  afterglow  of  that  lost  light  ? 
Shall  I  not  see  her  once  .  .  .  ? 

WlTTIKIN. 

Whom  wouldst  thou  see  ? 

HEINRICH. 

I  would  see  her.    Whom  else  ?  .  .  .  Dost  not  know  that  ? 

WlTTIKIN. 
Thou  hast  one  wish  !  ...  It  is  thy  last !  .  .  .  So — wish. 

HEINRICH  [quickly]. 

I  have  wished  J 

WlTTIKIN. 
Then  thou  shall  see  her  once  again. 

HEINRICH  \rising  and  ecstatically]. 

Ah,  mother !  .  .  .  Why  I  name  thee  thus,  I  know  not  .  .  . 

Art  thou  so  mighty  ?  .  .  .  Canst  thou  do  so  much  ?  .  .  . 

Once  I  was  ready  for  the  end,  as  now  : 

Half  hoping,  as  each  feeble  breath  I  drew, 

That  it  might  be  the  last.    But  then  she  came — 

And  healing,  like  the  breeze  in  early  Spring, 

Rushed  through  my  sickly  frame:  and  I  grew  well  .  .  . 

All  of  a  sudden,  now  I  feel  so  light, 

That  I  could  soar  up  to  the  heights  again  .  .  . 


ii8  The  SUNKEN   BELL   Act  V. 

WlTTIKIN. 

Too  late ! 

[HEINRICH  recoils  in  terror.} 
Thy  heavy  burdens  weigh  thee  down: 
Thy  dead  ones  are  too  mighty  for  thee.    See  ! 
I  place  three  goblets  on  the  table.    So. 
The  first  I  fill  with  white  wine.     In  the  next, 
Red  wine  I  pour :  the  last  I  fill  with  yellow. 
Now,  shouldst  thou  drain  the  first,  thy  vanished  power 
Shall  be  restored  to  thee.    Shouldst  drink  the  second, 
Once  more  thou  shalt  behold  the  spirit  bright 
Whom  thou  hast  lost.    But  an  thou  dost  drink  bot\., 
Thou  must  drain  down  the  last. 

[She  turns  to  enter  the  hut.     On  the  threshold  she  halts 
and  utters  the  next  words  with  solemn  emphasis.'} 
I  say  thou  must ! 

[She  goes  into  the  hut.} 

.[HEINRICH  has  listened  to  the  preceding  speech  like  a 
man  dazed.  As  OLD  WITTIKIN  leaves  him,  he 
rouses  himself  and  sinks  on  a  bench.} 

HEINRICH. 

Too  late !  .  .  .  She  said,  "  Too  late  !  "  .  .  .  Now  all  is  done  ! 

0  heart,  that  knowest  all,  as  ne'er  before  : 

Why  dost  thou  question  ?  .  .  .  Messenger  of  Fate ! 
Thy  fiat,  as  the  axe,  doth  sharply  fall, 
Cutting  the  strand  of  life !  ...  It  is  the  end  ! 
What's  left  is  respite  !  .  .  .  But  I'll  profit  by  't. 
Chill  blows  the  wind  from  the  abyss.     The  day 
That  yonder  gleam  so  faintly  doth  forerun, 
Piercing  the  sullen  clouds  with  pale  white  shafts, 

1  shall  not  see.     So  many  days  I  have  lived  : 
Yet  this  one  day  I  shall  not  live  to  see ! 

[He  raises  the  first  goblet^ 
Come  then,  thou  goblet,  ere  the  horror  come  ! 
A  dark  drop  glistens  at  the  bottom.    One  ! 


The  SUNKEN    BELL   Act   V.  119 

A  last  one  .  .  .  Why,  thou  crone,  hadst  thou  no  more  ? 

So  be  it !     {He  drinks.}     And  now  to  thee,  thou  second  cup  ! 

[He  raises  the  second goblet '.] 
It  was  for  thee  that  I  did  drain  the  first. 
And,  wert  thou  missing,  thou  delicious  draught, 
Whose  fragrance  tempts  to  madness,  the  carouse 
Whereunto  God  has  bid  us  in  this  world 
Were  all  too  poor,  meseems — unworthy  quite, 
Of  thee,  who  dost  the  festal  board  so  honor. 
Now  I  do  thank  thee — thus  ! 

\He  drinks.} 
The  drink  is  good. 
[A  murmur  as  of  czolian  harps  floats  on  the  air  while  he 

drinks.] 

[RAUTENDELEIN  rises  slowly  from  the  well.  She  looks 
weary  and  sad.  She  sits  on  the  edge  of  the  well, 
combing  her  long  flowing  locks.  Moonlight. 
RAUTENDELEIN  is  pale.  She  sings  into  vacancy. 
Her  voice  is  faint]. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

All,  all  alone,  in  the  pale  moon-shine, 
I  comb  my  golden  hair, 

Fair,  fairest  Rautendelein ! 
The  mists  are  rising,  the  birds  take  flight, 
The  fires  burn  low  in  the  weary  night  .  .  . 

THE  NICKELMANN  [from  below]. 
Rautendelein ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I'm  coming ! 

THE  NICKELMANN  [from  below]. 

Come  at  once ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Woe,  woe,  is  me ! 

So  tight  I  am  clad, 

A  maid  o'  the  well,  bewitched  and  so  sad  ! 


120  The   SUNKEN   BELL   Act    V. 

THE  NICKELMANN  [front  below}. 
Rautendelein ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I'm  coming ! 

THE  NICKELMANN  [from  below]. 

Come  thou  now ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

• 

I  comb  my  hair  in  the  moonlight  clear, 

And  think  of  the  sweetheart  who  loved  me  dear. 

The  blue-bells  all  are  ringing. 

Ring  they  of  joy  ?    Ring  they  of  pain? 

Blessing  and  bane — 

Answers  the  song  they  are  singing ! 

Now  down  I  go,  to  my  weedy  well — 

No  more  I  may  wait : 

I  must  join  my  mate — 

Farewell !    Farewell ! 

[She prepares  to  descend.] 
Who  calls  so  softly  ? 

HEINRICH. 
i. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Who'rtthou? 

HEINRICH. 

Why— I. 

Do  but  come  nearer — ah,  why  wouldst  thou  fly  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I  dare  not  come !  .  .  .  I  know  thee  not.     Away  I 
For  him  who  speaks  to  me,  I  am  doomed  to  slay. 


The   SUNKEN   BELL  Act   V.  121 

HEINRICH. 

Why  torture  me  ?    Come.    Lay  thy  hand  in  mine, 
And  thou  shalt  know  me. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I  have  never  known  thee. 

HEINRICH. 

Thou  know'st  me  not  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

No! 

HEINRICH. 

Thou  hast  never  seen  me? 

RAUTENDELEIN- 

I  cannot  tell. 

HEINRICH. 

Then  may  God  cast  me  off ! 
I  never  kissed  thee  till  thy  lips  complained  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Never. 

HEINRICH 

Thou'st  never  pressed  thy  lips  to  mine  ? 

THE  NICKELMANN  [from  below}. 
Rautendelein ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

I'm  coming ! 

THE  NICKELMANN. 

Come.    I  waiti 

HEINRICH. 

Who  called  to  thee  ? 


122  The   SUNKEN    BELL  Act    V. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

The  Water-man — my  mate ! 

HEINRICH. 

Thou  seest  my  agony — the  pain  and  strife 
7hat  rend  my  soul,  and  eat  away  my  life ! 
Ah,  torture  me  no  longer.  Set  me  free ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Then,  as  thou  wilt.    But  how  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Come  close  to  me ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

1  cannot  come. 

HEINRICH. 

Thou  canst  not  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

No.    I  am  bound. 

HEINRICH. 

By  what  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN  [retreating]. 

I  must  begone  to  join  the  round, 
A  merry  dance — and  though  my  foot  be  sore, 
Soon,  as  I  dancing  go,  it  burns  no  more. 
Farewell !    Farewell ! 

HEINRICH. 

Where  art  thou  ?    Stay,  ah  stay ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [disappearing  behind  the  well]. 
Lost,  lost,  for  ever ! 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act   V.  123 

HEINRICH. 

The  goblet — quick,  I  say  ! 
There  .    .    there  .  .  the  goblet !  .  .  .  Magda?    Thou?  .    .   So 

pale !  .  .  . 

Give  me  the  cup.    Who  brings  it,  I  will  hail 
My  truest  friend. 

RAUTENDELEIN  [reappearing]. 

I  bring  it. 

HEINRICH. 

Be  thou  blessed. 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Yes.    I  will  do  it.    Leave  the  dead  to  rest ! 

\Shegives  HEINRICH  the  goblet.] 

HEINRICH. 

I  feel  thee  near  me,  thou  dear  heart  of  mine ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  \rttreating}. 

Farewell !    Farewell !    I  never  can  be  thine  I 
Once  I  was  thy  true  love — in  May,  in  May—- 
Now all  is  past,  for  aye  !   .    .    . 

HEINRICH. 

For  aye ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

For  aye ! 

Who  sang  thee  soft  to  sleep  with  lullabies  ? 
Who  woke  thee  with  enchanting  melodies  ? 

HEINRICH. 

Who,  who — but  thou  ? 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Who  am  I  ? 


124  The   SUNKEN    BELL    Act    V. 

HEINRICH. 

Rautendelein  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Who  poured  herself  into  thy  veins,  as  wine  ? 
Whom  didst  thou  drive  into  the  well  to  pine? 

HEINRICH. 

Thee,  surely  thee ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Who  am  I? 

HEINRICH. 

Rautendelein ! 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

Farewell!    Farewell!  [He  drinks.] 

HEINRICH. 

Nay  :  lead  me  gently  down. 
Now  comes  the  night — the  night  that  all  would  flee. 

[RAUTENDELEIN  hastens  to  htm,  and  clasps  him  about  the 
knees.] 

RAUTENDELEIN  [exultingly]. 

The  Sun  is  coming ! 

HEINRICH. 

The  Sun  ! 

RAUTENDELEIN  [half  sobbing,  half  rejoicing] 

Ah,  Heinrich  ! 

HEINRICH. 

Thanks ! 


The  SUNKEN    BELL  Act    V.  125 

RAUTENDELEIN. 

{Embracing  HEINRICH,  she  presses  her  lips  to  his,  and  then 

gently  lays  him  down  as  he  dies.'} 
Heinrich ! 

HEINRICH  [ecstatically]. 

I  hear  them  !     'Tis  the  Sun-bells'  song  ! 

The  Sun  .  .  the  Sun  .  .  draws  near !  .  .  The  Night  is  ...  long ! 

\Dawn  breaks.     He  dies.] 


THE  END. 


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